Narration of Life

The crow still watches.
Strangest days are when music is played,
But the children do not dance.
Tears flow from eyes that see the darkness 
In nightmarish trance.
For her future sins, she says
Three Hail Marys in advance.
In the flesh beauty is adored,
But tired souls pull away in constant balance
Yearning for transcendence.
The light that is within is dimmed …
In death, eyes are closed,
And in birth, eyes are again opened.
Solace is doggedly sought,
But even by the wealthy, it cannot be bought.
The weeping of the children signals the horizon
Of a new beginning.
Who can fathom the deep emotions
Of the hearts of wounded men?
Love is found for a season
And then disappears again.
Memories of love resurface in the winter,
But there are no more passionate kisses by warm fires
Or tender hearts for shelter.
The callousness of life strikes and tears asunder.
The poet’s pen writes of love and heavy sorrows;
From a deep well of affliction and lost love,
The words he borrows.
As pen hits paper thus begins the concerto;
The violinist starts off slow
And ends in thunderous crescendo.
Emily Dickinson sings and writes anew
As she gazes out of her window.

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