Its skin worn by resigning
It’s a tale sung to a drunken audience
By musicians whose talent
Has long since gone to seed
Yet the people feel the need
For familiar words
Crooned in a minor key
As if memories could be show tunes
Confessions overcooked ballads
Dreams prog rock escapades
Truth an unfinished symphony
The soundtrack to our lives
Plays on
And we plot moments with music
Much as we plot stars with dots
A cosmological cacophony
That rings in our heads
And binds time to rhythm and melody
Such that we tap out our wasting away
To the metronome’s click
But what if we could rewrite the score
Do away with bum notes
Ill timed cadences
Obvious codas and more
What if we became composers
Working in concert with master musicians
Directing our ideas into musical themes
Then we would breed new sounds
Outside the limited bounds
Of the electro/post-punk/post-rock
And take stock of history
In all its beneficial warrant
For the songs that stand the test of time
We make for ourselves
Irrespective of talent
© shaun patrick green 2011
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