Silver roses breaking hearts.
Beds with silver linings
And piles of piles.
Waiting all day in place
For a person.
Take a number,
stand in line.
You're not the first person here.
He takes up his instrument,
And plays one song.
The only song he knows.
The song of life.
Playing E sharps and B flats,
He composes as he plays.
But he's not improvising.
(He play's what's meant to be)
His song sounds different to all
Because their lifes goes to the music.
If he plays a bad chord,
You get backstabbed.
It he adds a sixth,
You lose a love.
If he plays a major,
You have a laugh.
If he plays a m7,
You fufill a dream.
But sometimes bad chords sound best.
And sometimes good chords make disharmony.
But then again,
Why do you care?
You don't decide your life,
He does.
Everyone is under his control.
Including him.
His song is powerful.
Even if he isn't.
His music is what sets him apart.
But he's just forcing you to hear his song.
You can't stop listening.
Even if you try.
He adds twists
And turns
And buckles
And cliffs
And jumps
And unrealistic explosions.
But, he doesn't know why he's even there.
He thinks,
"Why can't someone else play this?"
He's confused,
Is it true or is it not?
Or are his thoughts controlled by want?
He doesn't know,
So he continues on.
His song dies down,
Ending anti-climactically.
But as his story ends,
It starts again.
It turned out,
Time was cyclic.