A figure, hunched over on the end of its resting place. Holding something desperately in its clutches.
A small wooden box with a crank on the side, the box itself is decorated with little miscellaneous carvings.
The figure held it so tightly, but wouldn't turn the crank.
"I can't remember it." The figure spoke, it's voice filled with a bit of sorrow and numbness.
"I can't remember what it sounds like." It repeated.
The figure's hands inched towards the crank of the box. Itching to give it a turn, before it stopped itself.
"Does it really even matter if I remember?" It asked. To who? Who knows. There was no one else there. It was so quiet.
A few more moments of silence before the figure looked back down at the box.
"I just want to hear it again, but I know that's pointless."
The figure gently held the box, it's tight grip loosened. From a desperate hold to a weak, pitiful grasp.
"It's still gone, even if I listen a million times. That won't bring the song back."
YOU ARE READING
Sickening Poetry
PoetryJust a poem book, mostly small, short poems. Maybe a big poem here and there but This is just for fun. Nothing serious.
