The instruments play music
But not all instruments have melody.
Some are silent.
When the wind blows,
Along many stories flows.
The stories not known.
〔A collection *of poems by my embarrassing past self's*.〕
One died of cancer, The other drowned in alcohol. The leader mourned years, And the last commit suicide. Haunted, was the music room, none dared to play The dusty instrument and the brokens wished to be used. The guys who filled the air; With joy and warmth left. Engulfed in cold winter-
The old music room yearned for them.
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