O' music box,
With many strings,
Why imprison me?
Why cast your blades across the steely sky?
I must away, but you force me to stay.
When I was a boy, I saw unleashed upon you,
With my young eyes,
A proud disease.
My friend was sick; I could not heal him,
So all I could was smash and bash him.
He would not die, I did not cry,
For I was lost to my own music making box.
"Father, what is this gift? A toy?"
Asked I the living wandering boy.
"How does it work?"
Like death, my youngest self should have foreseen.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
O' music box,
With many strings,
Why imprison me?
Why cast your blades across the steely sky?
I must away, but you force me to stay.
When I was a boy, I saw unleashed upon you,
With my young eyes,
A proud disease.
My friend was sick; I could not heal him,
So all I could was smash and bash him.
He would not die, I did not cry,
For I was lost to my own music making box.
"Father, what is this gift? A toy?"
Asked I the living wandering boy.
"How does it work?"
Like death, my youngest self should have foreseen.
Part III of Songs of Loss, book II of Unwinding Steely Strings.
The toy he wears upon his mind is the burden he'll bear until the end of time.
