Isn't It a Pity? a poem by Daedalus Chaos at Spillwords.com
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Isn’t It a Pity?

Isn’t It a Pity?

written by: Daedalus Chaos

@DaedalusChaos

 

Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?
How we break each other’s hearts and
cause each other pain?
Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?
We tear each other apart and
call each other names.

I wish for understanding.
I have watched these people pass
my section day-after-day as I
strum these strings note-upon-
note but they don’t get it.
The cries of melancholic joy reverbs
from the base of my instrument – reaching
out for any pair of ears who’d
at least take a second to listen.
But… no…. No one seems interested, I
shall continue tomorrow…

Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?
Day-after-day, we stagnate with pain.

I do not remember – I mean, I lost
track of the months since I
started here. Sometimes, it feels
like I’ve been wailing a single
solid symphony – other moments
I question if it’s even me
plucking these strings.
It reminds me of those moments we
used to share – my love – and ever
since, I attempt to replicate that energy
on this corner… and now… there
is someone who felt it, I
am sure. There was a hint of curiosity
when he approached – he walked over people
and stopped to listen to the
melodies from my fingers. We linked
our eyes and I knew that today
would be my first direct interaction
since you, Sophia.

Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?
I serenaded you, even to this day.
Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?
I cry out to you, because you went away.

Who could have known about the
people one would meet on the streets.
This one, Sophia, he stood and watched
me for an hour – and said nothing. He
simply nod his head and left. I was… intrigued.
His silence defeaned the excess and
his face betrayed neither emotions nor
intentions. His eyes, my love, everything
was said in those hazel eyes of his. They
introduced the sort of quiet joy and
hidden sorrow I thought only belonged
in my morning reflections. He
was burdened, Sophia,
of that I am sure. This is the
look of someone approaching
a crossroad and yet the map
he possesses has grown foreign to
him. When he left, I hesitated
but for a half-second. I missed
half of a note but adjusted –
quickly – changing the direction
of my sovereign sadness towards
his back. We connected – the shock
shivered down his spine and I can
almost taste his reconsideration. Alas,
our half-second faded when
a little child tossing coins into my
Hat, distracting me long enough
for him to vanish.

Isn’t it a pity? Isn’t it a shame?

Was there meaning to our meeting, my
rose? I was not content with
that moment, yet I feared it would be selfish
of me to bother him next time. If there
would be a next time.
It’d been more than a week and I
formed a sort of…
But.. this time, he found me…

He found me when I was
sure to B flat
and this time, I initiated contact.
I knew he would C me sharply
when my melody trebled off the clef
into the very chords that beam
the keys to our signatures
together. I measured his response – we
exchanged notes.

We spoke about music, of course.
We talked about poetry, and how
the two are intimately intertwined.
We mentioned our passions – his being
poetry and the power of the pen –
me with the importance of our voice.
He told me that he sometimes feels like
he’d lost his inner poet –
I shared that after my muse, Sophia, I
didn’t know what to do.

He asked about you, my love, and how
I managed to play without you. I…
hesitated.. I did not have an answer.
I wasn’t sure if I play each day
in order to keep you alive – or if I
was hoping someone else could feel you.
Maybe it was my way to honor you – we
met on a street like this, and it was you
who taught me how to share myself.

This poet watched me – I
stood there, eternal – not knowing what
my own reasoning was.
The compulsion to compose companion
pieces completely complements
yet encompasses and compresses my
complicated impulses into one simple
Fact: I create because
no one else speaks for
me.
I declared this, outloud before
I even gave myself time to question it.
The Poet smiled – he thanks me,
for what? I do not really know.

He stepped back
and started to write in a notebook –
without a word. I used
this time to play something new, something
different. If you could hear me,
my dear, you would tell me how
light I sounded from then on. The
minutes fade – The Poet rips out some
paper and folds them. Placing the
pieces in my hat – he nods at me
and leaves.

Everyday in the city, I would stand and play
to share what’s in me, on this corner I stay
I took your love, forgot to give it back
as you look above, my most precious jewel
I can can say thanks, for being my muse

Isn’t it a pity, isn’t it a shame?
You had to depart, now I appreciate
What you gave

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