July 26, 2009

The wooden box.

We feel defeat at every war
Yet we strive for it.
It is still a lesson not learned.
Humanity has not yet learned to not repeat the past.

The hopelessness of the loss is still,
the feeling of emptyness and solitude
lies still on a body so fragile
as the mind who guides it.

No hope. Emptyness was and still is
the feeling we most fear.
Yet we strive to break free from
a life where it is supressed
and look for it.

Trial and error is still
the norme where it shouldn't.

The last keys of a piano
that was never ment to play such melody.
Keys that were never ment to be played;
sound that was not composed
to be heard for living souls.

And until the last note sounds
on the old wooden box
whose strings strive like a newborn
to breath the air for the soul
the fight for its vibrations continues.

Repeating the same exact effort
as the last string
even though on a different note.

But on the last page,
in the last line, on the last note
we'll look back just to realise
that the played melody was
in fact an amalgama of notes
played at random and that
the composition we have
so efortlessly written will
as it was before us,

be erased, never to be read again.

Maxwell R. Black

26 Jul 2009