She sits within a fragile house of sound,
Her gangly limbs splayed out on bare-less toes.
With fairy dust caked on her heels she cries,
‘I’m lost, can you point me please toward home?’
The sound, pernicious slave, makes scats and tings,
Sending the gracious mind to oceans bound;
And once when I was left by lovers gone,
Now, though pain remains, do I feel found.
How cames’t this land of notes and cello groans?
When I had sat to ponder my own death,
My eyes, a blinking light, crack ope and spy
A cliff, a precipice, where came to die.
When pain exceeds the love you feel for life
Let music heal the cut, and not the knife.
Inspired by A.S.