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The wide grin of a failure lights the night sky,
As the long hair of the wise man still refuses to sing,
And as it drifts in the breeze that carries the sigh,
The girl's eyes burn harder with the tune that he brings,
The man smiles on the inside as he plays out his script,
While the mother still glares from the window sill,
And still with no sight of his shattered crypt,
He plays the flute upon the flowered old hill.
The music that carried and the mind that it bought,
The lyrics unspoken but still carried a thought,
And the lesson might have still been there to be taught,
If it wasn't for the man who feigns to fear naught,
Oh and what of the beauty that could have been saved?
And what of those roads that may still have been paved?
It's not that the questions you ask are unheard,
It's just that you've yet to learn what you've feared.
The cool calm suggestion of the notes played that night,
Call on the girl to do all that she's asked,
The merging and surging of the wrongs and the rights,
Makes the thought of regret to be quickly passed,
The flowers watch on and wait for the moon,
One more brand new hole to be learnt how to fill,
And the girl loves the fad of the newly heard tune,
From the flute played upon the flowered old hill.
The girl cannot see that she's ruled by her fear,
Believing the tuneplayer could help her to see,
But he cannot tell for the thought that he's near,
To become what would require a less selfish flee,
And at the moment she woke up alone she would say,
She had forgiven the man to be left in the chill,
And all that remained at her feet where she lay,
Was the flute that was played upon the flowered old hill.
Trapped in the comfort of instilled disbeliefs,
From the hill perhaps one should take their own leaves,
For the flowers upon it have seen all the thieves,
That expect to be hated and not to be grieved,
Can you tell for the petals that have been scattered along?
Haven't you heard of that tune and heard of that song?
You refuse to let go because you cannot be,
The strength to fear what you cannot see.
And maybe one day there'll stand the girl,
Who's learned so much now from the marks that she's earned,
And the man plays his flute but with a smile and a twirl,
The girl strips off and shows that she's burned,
And the man stops playing and is shown his true ways,
Of losing control of the only life that he'll know,
And it's said that that old hill is a mountain these days,
And that crafted old flute is hidden under the snow...
As the long hair of the wise man still refuses to sing,
And as it drifts in the breeze that carries the sigh,
The girl's eyes burn harder with the tune that he brings,
The man smiles on the inside as he plays out his script,
While the mother still glares from the window sill,
And still with no sight of his shattered crypt,
He plays the flute upon the flowered old hill.
The music that carried and the mind that it bought,
The lyrics unspoken but still carried a thought,
And the lesson might have still been there to be taught,
If it wasn't for the man who feigns to fear naught,
Oh and what of the beauty that could have been saved?
And what of those roads that may still have been paved?
It's not that the questions you ask are unheard,
It's just that you've yet to learn what you've feared.
The cool calm suggestion of the notes played that night,
Call on the girl to do all that she's asked,
The merging and surging of the wrongs and the rights,
Makes the thought of regret to be quickly passed,
The flowers watch on and wait for the moon,
One more brand new hole to be learnt how to fill,
And the girl loves the fad of the newly heard tune,
From the flute played upon the flowered old hill.
The girl cannot see that she's ruled by her fear,
Believing the tuneplayer could help her to see,
But he cannot tell for the thought that he's near,
To become what would require a less selfish flee,
And at the moment she woke up alone she would say,
She had forgiven the man to be left in the chill,
And all that remained at her feet where she lay,
Was the flute that was played upon the flowered old hill.
Trapped in the comfort of instilled disbeliefs,
From the hill perhaps one should take their own leaves,
For the flowers upon it have seen all the thieves,
That expect to be hated and not to be grieved,
Can you tell for the petals that have been scattered along?
Haven't you heard of that tune and heard of that song?
You refuse to let go because you cannot be,
The strength to fear what you cannot see.
And maybe one day there'll stand the girl,
Who's learned so much now from the marks that she's earned,
And the man plays his flute but with a smile and a twirl,
The girl strips off and shows that she's burned,
And the man stops playing and is shown his true ways,
Of losing control of the only life that he'll know,
And it's said that that old hill is a mountain these days,
And that crafted old flute is hidden under the snow...
Um... well.
It's really about people who affect people with their same old ways... people who are so scared of themselves and of losing control, that they affect people's emotions anyway they can. The music from the flute is to women like what the pied piper was to the rats, leading them on.
The hill becoming a mountain and the flute being hidden under the snow just means that maybe you'll work out that people are playing games with you now, but sooner or later, someone's going to play a game with you that's going to be even harder to understand. Being blind and then seeing just means that the next time you'll be blinded you're going to have to have thicker glasses. I really can't explain in anything other than metaphors, I'm quite pathetic. :0)
I know what it means in my head, because I don't have to use words there.
It's really about people who affect people with their same old ways... people who are so scared of themselves and of losing control, that they affect people's emotions anyway they can. The music from the flute is to women like what the pied piper was to the rats, leading them on.
The hill becoming a mountain and the flute being hidden under the snow just means that maybe you'll work out that people are playing games with you now, but sooner or later, someone's going to play a game with you that's going to be even harder to understand. Being blind and then seeing just means that the next time you'll be blinded you're going to have to have thicker glasses. I really can't explain in anything other than metaphors, I'm quite pathetic. :0)
I know what it means in my head, because I don't have to use words there.
I liked this. It was getting a little too sentimental at the end (which I found made it less credible...only a tiny bit less) but otherwise an enjoyable read. Are you part of a writing club on the internet? I have some good ones you might like.
I must confess I'm not a big fan of rhyming poetry, but I read this because of the intriguing title..... it is good [I think], but as always with poetry, by the end I felt like a fly caught in a spider's web. I lost the meaning.
Don't forget your ego, doors on the left.
Just remembered why I don't come into this forum very often.
The wide grin of a failure lights the night sky,
As the long hair of the wise man still refuses to sing,
And as it drifts in the breeze that carries the sigh,
The girl's eyes burn harder with the tune that he brings,
The man smiles on the inside as he plays out his script,
While the mother still glares from the window sill,
And still with no sight of his shattered crypt,
He plays the flute upon the flowered old hill.
The music that carried and the mind that it bought,
The lyrics unspoken but still carried a thought,
And the lesson might have still been there to be taught,
If it wasn't for the man who feigns to fear naught,
Oh and what of the beauty that could have been saved?
And what of those roads that may still have been paved?
It's not that the questions you ask are unheard,
It's just that you've yet to learn what you've feared.
The cool calm suggestion of the notes played that night,
Call on the girl to do all that she's asked,
The merging and surging of the wrongs and the rights,
Makes the thought of regret to be quickly passed,
The flowers watch on and wait for the moon,
One more brand new hole to be learnt how to fill,
And the girl loves the fad of the newly heard tune,
From the flute played upon the flowered old hill.
The girl cannot see that she's ruled by her fear,
Believing the tuneplayer could help her to see,
But he cannot tell for the thought that he's near,
To become what would require a less selfish flee,
And at the moment she woke up alone she would say,
She had forgiven the man to be left in the chill,
And all that remained at her feet where she lay,
Was the flute that was played upon the flowered old hill.
Trapped in the comfort of instilled disbeliefs,
From the hill perhaps one should take their own leaves,
For the flowers upon it have seen all the thieves,
That expect to be hated and not to be grieved,
Can you tell for the petals that have been scattered along?
Haven't you heard of that tune and heard of that song?
You refuse to let go because you cannot be,
The strength to fear what you cannot see.
And maybe one day there'll stand the girl,
Who's learned so much now from the marks that she's earned,
And the man plays his flute but with a smile and a twirl,
The girl strips off and shows that she's burned,
And the man stops playing and is shown his true ways,
Of losing control of the only life that he'll know,
And it's said that that old hill is a mountain these days,
And that crafted old flute is hidden under the snow...
As the long hair of the wise man still refuses to sing,
And as it drifts in the breeze that carries the sigh,
The girl's eyes burn harder with the tune that he brings,
The man smiles on the inside as he plays out his script,
While the mother still glares from the window sill,
And still with no sight of his shattered crypt,
He plays the flute upon the flowered old hill.
The music that carried and the mind that it bought,
The lyrics unspoken but still carried a thought,
And the lesson might have still been there to be taught,
If it wasn't for the man who feigns to fear naught,
Oh and what of the beauty that could have been saved?
And what of those roads that may still have been paved?
It's not that the questions you ask are unheard,
It's just that you've yet to learn what you've feared.
The cool calm suggestion of the notes played that night,
Call on the girl to do all that she's asked,
The merging and surging of the wrongs and the rights,
Makes the thought of regret to be quickly passed,
The flowers watch on and wait for the moon,
One more brand new hole to be learnt how to fill,
And the girl loves the fad of the newly heard tune,
From the flute played upon the flowered old hill.
The girl cannot see that she's ruled by her fear,
Believing the tuneplayer could help her to see,
But he cannot tell for the thought that he's near,
To become what would require a less selfish flee,
And at the moment she woke up alone she would say,
She had forgiven the man to be left in the chill,
And all that remained at her feet where she lay,
Was the flute that was played upon the flowered old hill.
Trapped in the comfort of instilled disbeliefs,
From the hill perhaps one should take their own leaves,
For the flowers upon it have seen all the thieves,
That expect to be hated and not to be grieved,
Can you tell for the petals that have been scattered along?
Haven't you heard of that tune and heard of that song?
You refuse to let go because you cannot be,
The strength to fear what you cannot see.
And maybe one day there'll stand the girl,
Who's learned so much now from the marks that she's earned,
And the man plays his flute but with a smile and a twirl,
The girl strips off and shows that she's burned,
And the man stops playing and is shown his true ways,
Of losing control of the only life that he'll know,
And it's said that that old hill is a mountain these days,
And that crafted old flute is hidden under the snow...