Notes
It’s comforting to suppose
that we had orchestrated our lives,
that wrong steps were recovered
or covered up,
that cacophony didn’t last,
that we always found new variations,
to the same old music,
and if at times a sobering truth
impelled us to acknowledge
that the imperfect opus
of our works
was a mere divertimenti played
by a band of blind mice,
then it's comforting to know
we can still whistle
whatever broken melody
we are left with
as the concert hall
empties into the night.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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