If the music kills you, it is not meant for you
The sheet doesn’t read exactly
It’s like an executioner’s note
where the good in goodness sounds relieving
until the bad in badness comes around
to slit your throat and cut cords –
your chords with a violin’s bow.
It’d be entertaining. It’d be a sport brought to abrupt stop
for the crowd to cheer – and leave their coins –
metal after metal
to measure your life – the worth of your living
against the joy of your dying.
You’d know these people behind the masks
You’d recognise the crowd.
You’d be the noise after the music dies.