The Music Box
I once thought this was the end. I'm glad I kept going.
She said she was looking for something new in life.
Something that breaks through the fog,
Embraces the day.
Something that shatters worlds and illusions.
Something different.
Something amazing.
She looked out the window,
Dreaming,
Never realizing it had been open all along.
He answered, “What about the heart break
Of a bell tolling in the distance?
Of a hand reaching out to someone,
Anyone,
Only to be ignored?
Would you stand with me on the edge of oblivion?”
He handed her a small, worn wooden box,
Its faded symbols warped and ancient,
Overused
But long forgotten.
He asked her to turn the handle,
To listen to the song.
For he recognized the potential for the possibility
Of her hearing a sound
That would be like a new dawn.
Even if it was a song we have all heard before.
As the handle turned, music poured out,
Cascading over her fickle heart
Like a river from a fall.
She took his hand,
They leapt through the window,
And they raced the shadows.
He followed as best he could,
But his footsteps began to falter,
His breath became uneven.
She continued the chase without a backward glance,
Tossing aside the ancient box.
Leaving him behind,
Alone and forgotten.
He himself found another,
But his passion was no match for her seriousness.
But the box demanded an audience,
The song demanded to be played.
She turned the handle.
Together they braved seas of doubt
Churning and crashing upon shores of realism,
And he found himself holding the railings
Of their makeshift craft
In newly realized apprehension.
He spoke of love and longing,
Of life and things beyond.
She spoke of the here and now.
The song slowed to a halt.
He shut the box’s lid.
She understood.
He wandered in silence to forests of change,
Remembering the steps he took to get there,
And found someone who had always been there,
Impatient but laughing,
Smiling but firm,
Waiting to pull him to his feet when he fell,
Waiting patiently for him to see her.
The dawn announced its presence
By the slivers of eminence
Peeking through the green canopies overhead.
He handed her the box,
And she turned the handle willingly.
They laid among the graveyard of fallen leaves,
Listening to the sounds of each other’s heartbeats,
Fluttering as if trying to escape,
And when they awoke side by side
They saw that the light had grown dim
And the road before them was wide and welcoming.
To the sound of the music, together they danced
And leapt and sprinted down the open road before them,
Their feet echoing off the old stone,
Rejoicing in the union of the noise.
Finally, here was someone who could hear every note,
Every instrument, Every sound,
And understand what each element added,
And what she herself added,
To the outcome of the sound.
Time itself seemed to listen to the tune,
Now as fast as a curious thought,
Now slow as the embracing of faults.
Suddenly, without warning,
She stopped running.
She turned, smiled, and let go of his hand.
Before he could stop her, she closed the box.
The music stopped playing.
She fled.
He wept.
He cried aloud to the heavens, begging for mercy,
Demanding answers,
Sure that he could handle the truth of the mysteries
That so captivated and eluded him.
Hopes dashed, dreams aflame,
He abandoned the old box
In the foundations of a ruin,
And stumbled alone in the fading light.
Perhaps another lost soul would someday find
The box in that peaceful place.
Perhaps he would open the ancient and ageless compartment,
Turn the rusted handle,
And music would once more fill that lonely ruin,
Music that would make the very stones weep in sympathy,
At such a harmony of two souls
As they danced to the melody so many
Have heard and danced to before,
That had misled or brought together so many
In its quest to be heard,
To be understood.
But until then,
The box would lay exposed and unused,
Awaiting in silence a time that may never come.
He has grown old now.
Once so full of life and longing,
Now he is merely a shell of his former self,
Stumbling his last steps
In aimless directions, waiting for the end.
Watchful eyes gaze with immortal indifference as he trudges,
But they offer no assistance or guidance.
But he expected nothing less.
He finally reached an end:
The curtains of time hung low
From the very fabrics of reality,
Only inches from his outstretched hand.
And as he reached toward the gateway
To that ageless place that exists
Only in the mind of the dreamer,
A melody began to play.
Softly at first, then louder,
So familiar and inviting,
Enriched with memories,
With hopes and dreams
Long buried beneath the bitterness of age,
Until it became so loud in its melancholy
That it could have come from anywhere,
And he imagined the choir of phoenixes
Flying from the lands beyond the sun
Bringing daylight
With their joys and sorrows.
But he was far too old to be taken in by the song,
Though it had grown sweeter, or seemed so.
Perhaps he had grown deaf.
Perhaps his soul had deteriorated,
Leaving him handicapped in a similar fashion.
He grabbed the silky lining of time and space
And turned, taking one last look upon the world
That had bred such parasitic despair.
He shouted, “Why?
What have I done?”
He received no answer,
And left the world that had forgotten him.
Years later, the music box will surely be found once again,
And the music will once more fill the world.
Maybe it will bring its player a joy
That has long escaped me.
(2006)
