‘Sing to me,’ said the melody,
‘Cry to me on my lips.
Tell me the tune on a rainy afternoon
Play it for me as I sit.’
Swaying in time with mortality
we’re singing in case we might scream,
our lullaby turned to gut wrenching yearns
when the harmony wavered and slipped.
‘Play me your song, make a symphony,
hum from your quivering lips.
Cling to the base as I wonder the pace
Tell it to me as I sit.’
Our hearts beat in time, but mechanically,
and strays from the voice that it hears.
A love song is born but the time is to mourn,
sorrow’s words are the tempo’s eclipse.
‘So cry then’ said the melody,
‘cry until it makes sense.
Use me to grieve, wear your heart on your sleeve,
maybe soon life can commence.’
As it Comes 