It just sits there,
in the corner.
Huntched… curled into a shadow.
In a black coffin.
In a insane stupor, he cradled it
Pieced it back to gather again
Its golden body in his arms,
Only to let it sing in ways he could not remember
Notes falling daffidly failing with moments of udder bliss,
A mixed concerto of rediscovery, failures and sucess,
Its brilliance shined, and for a moment,
Two were one.
A gasp of release, and with a brief flurry of afterthoughts,
It was in pieces again,
With little absolute reassurances of return.
And it sits, in the corner
Again waiting for its memorance,
To be struck on by insanity.
Beautiful,
If only, one could take on such bliss,
While reasonable, and sane.