One Last Twist

Amongst the quiet young night,

Surrounded by darkened green

And pale yellow glowing all around,

A woman sat alone on a bench

With no direction to head to

And thoughts that cannot be contained.

Her hands hold a music box:

A delicate and simple little tricket,

Encased in dark sapele wood

And edges lined with pearls.

One twist of a tiny key

Allows a nightingale to come play its song.

Happiness is always in its lyrics,

But now the words within its melody

Amounts to just two words:

"I'm sorry".

The last song has already been sung,

Yet the owner could not bear

To depart with it once and for all.

Tears spilling from her eyes,

She slowly wound the triket one last time

And she let go.

Gently she set the musicbox down

On the bench beside her,

Then she retreated into the night,

Leaving the nightingale to sing its hurtful song

On and on into the young night.


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