The Music

By Beverly Greene

NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without Beverly Greene's expressed and written consent.

I sit in my self-imposed cell
and wonder why the birds sing.
The sun beats my soul down,
back into the slime from before.
The dawn came before I was ready
to open my eyes and see
what has been there all along.
And the music played on.

The knife pierces ever so gently,
almost as if our joining
was something to toast.
The red rain drips down,
covering the white innocence
just like it did then,
only then I wanted it to end.
And the music played on.

The dreams drowned in the puddle
never even bothering to fight back,
to try to survive another day,
to get the chance to come true.
I looked at their residue
and only managed to wonder
how they survived this long.
And the music played on.

The wind rushed past my face
drying the tears of stone
but careful not to try to heal
the wounds left behind
by past attempts at escape.
And the music played on.

The darkness finally fell
like the weight holding me down
while I wait for it to come,
the big destiny awaiting
this love woman trying to survive.
And the music played.

The notes get thin as the puddle deepens,
swallowing me whole and slow
as the pain finally starts to ease,
seeping out of an injured vein
onto the dirty, cold floor,
finally where it belongs.
And the music stopped.

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� 1999 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.

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