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Listen.
Stop. Listen. What do you hear?
Is it the whispering, tapping of rain?
Softly. On your windowsill; a melody.
Every drop, a second gone by -
Without ever stopping or questioning:
“Why?”
Is it the rhythmic waltzing of fingers
Clicking, breathing the letters,
dancing away?
As if nothing else matters.
Maybe it’s your own breath,
Stitching a pattern on the glass?
“When,” it weakly echoes,
“Shall I be free at last?”
Maybe it’s the whirlwind of thoughts,
Muffling the silence of the empty walls?
Familiar voices sing in your head
Of morals… they chant, they preach, they forbid…
Some exuberant,
others – poignantly sad.
A power to choose remains in your hands
Absorb it, to filter the thoughts
Through its sieve, as if sand.
Now listen. Don’t stop. The music is pure.
Don’t ask “Why?”, instead, yourself learn
To play the music that comes from the soul.
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This article has 5 comments.
Emerson, the father of that quote and some mind-blowing philosophy, liked to bring old things to life, as well. I, too, hope that concepts which have been so widely overused will one day live a life of their own under the tip of my pen. :) Thanks for your constructive criticism, although I'd like to learn specifics about the presumably imitative structures I have utilized... and perhaps have the privilege of being introduced to those hundred-something original thinkers?