New notes quivering on a quaver, new rhythms
rattling through the repercussions of older rhymes;
echoes of former crescendos that crashed too soon,
convoluted cords that quickly constricted comprehension,
reasons now realised to be unreasonable, yet old fears
still trickle-down worn keys, no longer black and white,
no longer wrong or right, (is there a right note?) is it wrong
to not want to be deceivable. Will he stay, this time,
(maybe this time) should I leave, like I didn’t last time,
the first time, the second, the third, the fifth, though here,
with this new chorus, playing now in double time
along the lower keys, fingers fiddle with flesh, fresher
than before or am I just older than ever, older than the rest,
and what of the rest of me, what is left to be played?
Has the lady sung her final encore, not yet, no! More,
I feel there is more. But is it enough to share, will he care?
Will he be willing, be sturdy? Can we carry on the tune
long since started? Can this time be more worthy
or am I just more worried or wordier?
Is this the warm-up
or the wrap?

All words by Damien B. Donnelly