Who said it was meant to be a straight line?
Tiptoe, crawl behind illusory fences
in pursuit of deceptive safety.
Caution, and caution more!
Till it bores the death out of us all.
We might well stand tall
and bounce back, or forth as it goes.
And trip over a brick, collapse and call it fate.
Who said it's a running race, or an empty song?
Who ran the road and came back to tell us there's a prise at the end?
I wished it woudn't be a lose lose match
between us and time.
But it sprints on and we drive this car back
to the scratch.
All the more alone we both become.
We rise and fall over sharps and flats
and forget it's the piano that plays.
And the musician knows to music
no ending is valid.