The eighth day

I think it’s the way that the strings are plucked that pull me to pieces or the vibrations that bring these tears to the fore.
I heard a long time ago that music is food for the soul, but it seems you can never be full.

In the mornings in mourning and dressed all in black,
I look back on the notes,
they still rise from the strings,
they still shake me,
still bring me to tears.

And I expect that in years yet to come
under some faraway toast of the sun
I’ll still remember
the way the notes played,
some things you can never forget
some things never let go.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.