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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Inspirational · #1605486
In Dead-ication to My Angel June 17 of 2009.
"Hide me from mine eyes for these eyes I fear, are not mine...." ♠



Music Box/: A 19th century automatic musical instrument that produces sounds by the use of a set of pins placed on a revolving cylinder (or disc) so as to pluck the tuned teeth off a steel comb...



Lay soft the finely tuned breath of the wooden bird.

Its' guise mere corners and painted decore

the wings but chiseled surfaces.

By glance, a shell of simple design; its

eleqounce wrapped in dust. The bird is dull.

But ah, what's this? Within its belly

one finds its vibrant flair!  The feathers,

once white (now stained maroon), bind the wood

to the womb. Upon the pedestal of the heart,

there lies no organ, but here a palette is found

in its stead.



Ah, and what's this? A rounded key lies within.

Its toothless grin cast confussion in silence. What

treachery is this? A flick of the wrist,

the key is turned...a tounge clicks. 

On this palette there rolls a tounge and upon

the teeth it clicks! With each turn a  pearl of

vibration is rung, the buds becoming a twisted

note. The dirge begins. Oh,

and how graceful this bird that its song should

flow so much like the ebony sea,

soft and bitter against the air.



A harsher click is sounded, the belly parts.

Revealed is a figurine, petite and poised she

dances. Such magic in this melody that dreams

may become reality. Entranced,

this bird has cast such a haunting spell.



My soul laughs. The key slows, anxious for

an end.



My heart laughs. Her dance,

it has stiffened; the song no longer flows.



My mind laughs. The spell is lifting, come back!



I'm quiet. The dirge has plucked its final note.



The silence of the world engulfs my being,

the bird sits dead upon my shelf.

Eyes heavy and weary, I drift to my own

death; dreams cascade me once again.

A final prayer, before the sun shines

and I find myself lost again:



"Sleep soundly to the music box, let it

carry you away. May the spell entangle

you in its web as the dirge begins to play.

Do not fear this bird, my child

if its song should seem to end.

For the music box will revive itself,

to sing for you again.



Amen"





© Copyright 2009 Aaron Romier (hismoonmaiden at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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