What kind of soundtrack will you slay me to?
What kind of melody will you play?
Is the crowd laughing or crying?
What kind of words do they say?
Are they screaming, jumping up and down,
or are they standing, solid as a stone?
Are there tears in their eyes
or is there fire staked from below?
Will the bass pound like a heartbeat
or be gentle, like petals on the wind?
Will it show my better nature
or shine the spotlight on the beast within?
Does reputation even matter anymore?
The destination is the path…
I can't retrace my steps.
I can't bring back the dead,
I can't go back.
I can't change the road behind me
I can't see past that last bend.
As the orchestra begins to play
I see a sign claiming this a dead end.
I see there's still blood on my fingers
so I press them to my eyes.
The music climbs higher and higher
Now that I'm here, I feel I'm running out of time.
I get caught up in the tempo
and I forget where I am.
Something inside tells me to just let go
and it's over before it begins.
There's no climax as expected
no explosion behind steel guitar.
Just haunted strumming and a resigned bow
and the shining of a single star.
See all poetry for Patrick Chase #S15790