i stand from my bed,

to stretch for the day ahead.

i fly away from home.

it’s the roads that make it lonely,

almost stretching endlessly before me.

yet i always find my way,

where the hungry flies dance ballet.

i stretch my hand out to the white swan,

as glistening death crowds her pond.

it’s the music that kept her here,

following everywhere far and near.

but her soul is gone,

the music still stretches on.

now the dying hear a symphony.