The Music Box Poem by Taylor Roberts

Beauty plays, fermenting the air,
its beauty, yet it poisons,
dance as you will, and so will
as you dance, so freely.
Blinded. Hear the strings,
they play.

Innards heating, the gears
they turn, ticking, constantly,
rushing, and dis-shaping, under
the heat, over use, constantly,
turning. With audience or not.
Until paralysed, beyond repair,
beyond need. Yet the handle is
still turned by the lover of the
beauty it plays.

The strings, they play, the gears
turn so why so shouldn't they,
the beauty slowed and slowed,
beauty to the ear turns now to
pain. Strings played so harsh,
they snap, so harsh, the charm
ceases.

The gears over worked, the strings
tattered and frail, yet still I play
for the turner of the handle.