No more are the violins playing
no more music float in the air
Silence is descending
and here I am.
Alone.
Why do my hands have thorns instead of a song?
my shoulders sag in the weight of memory
Those what-could-have-beens -
If I only could set them in a tune -
could be real
Set into song
Too many doors open
the melody gets lost in the illusions.
Clouds gather, lights fade out
The plaintive voice of night enchants
these shiftless thoughts
and leave them lonelier than before.
_______
Just a random poem written on a rather lazy afternoon.
MY WALL 
Thoughtful words, Imelda.