I tried to bury the hurt
deep, deep inside.
But it returns to haunt me,
because I buried it alive.

Music might be
poetry,
sung in grief,
in joy,
in sonorous voices.
With high pitches,
and tones.
Leaping much too deep.
A loud and clear,
periodically wordless tone.
A music piece
might be a love note,
with pure emotions
running deep.

A piercing of life's purity.
Of trust's transformation
into pitiful betrayal.

Dirge's death tune.
An ode, a praise song.
An elegy,
with instruments finely shaped.
The result of an innovative
craftsman's energy.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍.
𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎.
𝚂𝚘, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎.
𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛.

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐?
𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎?

𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎,
𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕.