Minutes

Do songwriters and poets produce pieces that mean the world to them, that help them keep their grip of reality, only to have their masterpieces torn to shreds by the ever-changing effects of time?
Maybe it's just me...

The old ink lies on old paper,

Lifeless words, without their spark.

I'll read them again a bit later.

Though I know I'll still be in the dark.

They lie in long and empty lines -

My tired eyes follow with a blank stare -

And I'm reminded of long-gone times.

Tell myself I shouldn't care.

I strike the chords that minutes ago

Helped shape the world in my head.

The sound is dismal; dull and low

The hollow spits the music back - dead.

They're echoes of emotions past,

Words that convinced me of what was real.

But time flies... Oh so fast.

Too fast for a songwriter to drop the seal.

The End

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