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my life in short
There's no rainbow without the rain....
The music box is where she sleeps
Forgotten secrets she doth keep
The fragile hearts of fragile girls
Strung round her neck like pure glass pearls
In darkness, maidens clothed in black
Mourn heroes uncertain to come back
Their souls are bound by love and locks
Here within the music box

Maidens betrothed, betrothed did vow
To return as soon as time allowed
So slowly dying, they remain afloat
Not drowning but for that small hope
The key to the cage cruel hands do wind
The faint, sick melody decays their minds
Their souls held fast in chains and locks
Slip away in the song of the music box

Empty shells they do become
To all but love, blind, deaf and dumb
She dangles their hopes on a silver string
Weighed down with their precious wedding rings
She makes them cry, she makes them sing
Spurns nightingale beauty and clips their wings
But for breath of faith, their souls are lost
But trapped within the music box

She had been scorned, had been forgotten
In shame and anger, she withers, rotten
She blames all maidens for her fate
Torments the faith that won't abate
Someday she'll open the music box
Let in the light, undo the locks
Twixt her and her hostages she'll come to see
The fate of what her heart used to be

But for now, the dark of the music box
Is where she sleeps, the wounded fox
Keeping forgotten secrets locked away
Forbidden to see light of day
All souls are kept in love nearly lost
Here within the music box

'Within the Music Box' ~ diBsSupreme





A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first
just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step--and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of
beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you--I think this face is the face of the
Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

Walt Whitman ' A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim'





TwinkleStarDust
Community Member
TwinkleStarDust
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