So I said to myself, what's the point of writing if I never share my work? It was supposed to be a song, hence the music box. But I focused more on it making sense then it being lyrical. It guess music boxes would go under the clock punk genre.
Poem by Amanda Barrientos.
While We Wait Plays The Music Box
Our feet are bound
While we wind around
We dance in the air
Though we go nowhere
Her ribbons sail over my coat as pale
In dust shaped like stars in our imagination
Spinning to blur all our time being spent
In wishes and dreams breaking down in lament
Our arguments grind with unbearable tension
Right then and there
I’m caught unaware
Of her fused, loyal hands
She whispered, “Remember?”
Our creator’s ember
Painted within our eyes
As a dream we were his
to be played by your whims
As a dream wearing thin
I whispered, “Is his song merely to die?”
We were his as a dream
His vision growing dim
Did he fail as we were frail as tin?
We falter, we’re fraying, notes groaning, delaying
Suddenly our fate jumps our hearts to keep playing...
Our feet are bound
While we wind around
We dance in the air
With one note to spare
Her ribbons sail over my coat as pale
Our cogs fly like stars in our imagination
