The Unwritten
Some songs remain unwritten,
so many unsung.
Sometimes there are words,
but no background music
so I curse this refrain.
Unable to find the perfect blend
My art remains unappreciated,
my soul blames my spirit,
my spirit my heart,
my heart my mind,
yet my mind remains mute.
Too fatigued to fight,
constantly pondering
why do I let myself create a
vocabulary of unspoken language
where a brittle bridge of
mulberry memories still stain.
Why do I remain in perpetual pain?
I know I cannot sing in tune,
nor play in an orchestra,
but, If you knew the verses for these violin strings,
then would you sing..... With me?
Too feel
Too believe
Too be heard
Maybe then, I too, will know if I'm understood -
bringing an end to this ebony eye existence.
Only the birds know my ballad,
but this morning they have no melody,
maybe they have forgotten the chorus to our chant,
so now my anthem of angst is surreal silence.
Why do they supress the lullabies?
Lyric less in lament,
I'm a nightingale surrounded by a murder of crows,
and I see cats prowling,
they seem to sense my breathless beats.
Yet, I know in a playground of pitfalls,
the canvass must bleed in a brush of emotions,
so blank pages portray lyrics of a sincere symphony,
blasting in colourful sounds, merging forever
because the world is the music,
my life a mere note
hoping it is never abandoned.
Copyright ©
Silent One
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