The Note

To get to the heart of the story, one must go back to the beginning
To the simple musical note hummed by the composer
Before he composed a majestic symphony of  thousand sounds
To be played by the mightiest of orchestras, wildly delighted
Never shall the note be lost, and never shall it be alone
For it will dance in harmony with its peers, creating beauty
In music so bold and simple in its complexity
That never shall it end, for never shall it want to
As the hairs of the bows whither and the strings of the woods break
The brass shudder by the might of the sounds
And the skins tremble with every beat of the muscled drummer
On they play, the humble messengers, the musicians
The artistes of sound, paintings pictures captured only by the wise
On their minds so deep that eternity might find its home there

Play on, my friends, as we drink late into the night
Excelling at camouflaging ourselves from reality, the truth of life
Where the future may be too hideous to envisage
Which is why the past must be known, the core of the being
The reasons, the causes of the effects, the answers to this question
Of who we are, of why we are, where we come from, to where we go
If I were a huge statue, I would prefer to stand on a deserted island
Where nobody could see me, stare at me, ask useless questions
And I could peer over the waters until I understood why
The sun rose in the morning and then set without fail
To be followed by the moon and the stars, gracing us
Regardless of how small we are, how small I am
But a very important part of the puzzle, the grand scale
Like the first note hummed by the great composer, the first note

Write A Letter

If I were to write a letter to myself, I wonder what I would say
For there is much to discuss, to reflect, to realize, and to let go of
So many questions to answer, so many answers without reason
Faces and places that need to be transferred from my memory
Into diction, that I could come to grips with, and understand
The reality of what has happened, the consequences of my life
Where I have gone to, what I have done, whom I have met
Decisions I have made, and any kind of difference I have ensured

How complex this be, when an ocean of ideas rush eagerly at me 
Like a furious tsunami, frivolous of the damage that it shall cause
As each idea attempts to let itself free from this dark bank of memory
Where so much has been boxed in the hope of blanket forgetfulness
Sad tales of loves lost and lost love, happy smiles of joyful days
Angry thoughts like violent demons, killing to expose themselves free
Away past the gentle and compassionate ideas of love and peace
Where I have tried to be, as I matured, or, at least I thought so

I am sorry, I think I would say, to myself, I am truly sorry. Yes, I would
For my arrogance, my ultimate stupidity in believing that I was right
When I knew so little, had seen places so few, and knew not real love
In its truest form, the unconditional kind, the all-encompassing one
I learnt this as a parent, yes, only then, to love completely and utterly
For my reward is to see her thrive in health and happiness, nothing more
Because in return I have been loved like no other has ever loved me
Regardless of the growing pains a young daughter inflicts on a father

Oh, my mind wonders from pillar to post, like an ant amongst its army
Weaving and swerving and climbing over each other seemingly aimlessly
The more I think of the letter, the more emotions show their heads
Some laughing, some smiling, some crying, and some cursing loudly
Perhaps it would be safer to close the vault doors and leave them there
I don’t know, perhaps it would be.  But where would the fun be in that
If, after all of these years, I am afraid of myself, of my own thoughts
Then could there be any purpose at all, when there is life to live