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.
YOU ARE READING
complacent
Poetryquieter achieved poems from the girl who thinks of stars and angels
