By: Emma B.

Life is like a music box
The parents are the Winding Fingers
The joy that comes as they wait and linger
The first of hypnotic melodies
Is the first few years as we show ourselves, entranced by every joy, every folly
The fracturing of sounds and gears
They show the tears that we shed through the years
The constant sadness and darkness
Haunting us like the world has no sun and our hearts; shaded by weakness
The creepy undertones in the middle
Show how we wait and mingle
The fresh sounds of adulthood ring on the horizon
Intriguing sounds gripping us like Sirens
Then the music repeats
We take a leap
Each repeat is a day
Every time it loops we cry or play
Then as the days stretch on, we begin to hum,
This humming makes life so young
But then the joy is suddenly sloping and shaping
Every gear is destined for breaking
At first only one note is out of tune
We don’t care
We carry on with it, like phases of a moon
Then as it rolls forward, more silence longs
As we begin to sob
Soon only fractured memories morph away
Into thoughts of yesterday
Then we have our turn to wind the music box

The music box that brings joy, even if we are gone

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