complacent

harps and long nights

I long to play the harp, as strange as it seems
In the strings I'd find purpose, in the music a new meaning
when I hear it softly plucked from Florence & the Machine
some sweetness builds inside me, all the night shall stay serene.
for the musical notes are sheets in which I lay
and not the soiled ones with the past that shall decay
and the strings aren't knives, contrary to what some say
rather trees producing love-fruit by the sun that shines by day
here I where I falter, my hope for music ends
for I cannot read the music on which the harp depends
so maybe in time, to this I can amend
but the lack of knowledge in all of us will never, ever end.