My hands grasp weakly at the weathered strings,
They aren't as quick as they used to be,
But they play still as sweet and faithfully,
As when they were new to me - the bell rings.
My once keen mind grows thick with lethargy,
Though the ebb and flow of music remain,
My body does sink low beneath my chain.
I wonder if the rhythm has left me.
But I cannot resist the tides anymore,
My life has one more thing for me in store.
The price to pay is high, but I must know,
If the sounds will sway in me once more.
Though those old weathered hands cradle me low.
The orchestra of earth plays still my score.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Journal
PoetryJust a collection of thoughts and feelings collected into a journal, mostly as a capsule for my own thoughts at the time, but of course available for your enjoyment. Hopefully some of you all will see yourselves in these virtual pages. -S.M. Vezina
