Keys on a piano, the melodic soprano; makes music that only my memories can hear and mend words from the hands of Shakespeare. This story, holds to me, very dear.
Of when I was young, doves fill in my lungs. Four chords of a C major bring back memories of when I was a teenager.
“Today, is tomorrow” “Inspired by Michelangelo, I have a gift that I drew… and I’ve been waiting to give to you.”
Re-imagined a hundred times, I never played the right chords. Never showed you what I was working towards. Like the paint on a canvas, stroke the restraints I was anxious. I put it to a stop, painted my own backdrop; hung my own scenery on my stage, wrote the last words and I turned the last page.
Hiding in silence and fighting my giants, I was missing everything that I was wishing.
I lost my rhymes, stood there and watched time go, watched you live your life, and I had to let you go.
Keys on a piano, the melodic soprano; makes music that only my memories can hear and mend words from the hands of Shakespeare.
There is no love story. There is no tragedy. Just myself, anxiously letting you go.
Letting go of the tomorrow that never came, a plateau with my ever diminishing flame,
What could’ve, What if, Why I never did. Hiding in silence and fighting my giants.
Letting her go
Was the hardest thing I did
She never knew
I lived in a world of my own
She will never know
Of the tomorrow that will never be
Or the sound of that middle C, its beautiful resonances, the balance of its middle-ness; and the subtle symphonies, the sounds of simple-ness, its brilliance.
Keeth Ratnes (2016-07-23)