A mother or maybe a father, presses play,
then a life begins,
we are confident, it has no end.
Slowly, but surely the tempo begins to change.
Never once does God send a note, out of our range.
The staccato rhythm sets us on edge,
as we struggle to dance.
Our hearts breaking to ballads,
as we attempt to understand,
a method to the madness,
a way to stop the invisible band.
But the song of life is short,
no more than five minute tops,
until it sails away in an empty album box.
Then we are left feeling vacant,
jaded by our ending note.
All the time we believed we had,
fades with a resounding echo.