Abused By Illusions

The Symphony of Life

Pain is the instrument on which we play the symphony of life;
filled with such utterly sad and lonely forlorn notes.
Pleasure at most only an accompanying solo on the fife.

Our birthright from the beginning only that of strife;
happiness at most a smattering of windblown wild oats.
Pain is the instrument on which we play the symphony of life.

Disappointments and failures within our lives seem all too rife;
while our victories are but meager footnotes.
Pleasure at most only an accompanying solo on the fife.

Some find moments of happiness by becoming man and wife;
but a fading illusion is all this ever promotes.
Pain is the instrument on which we play the symphony of life.

Hopes and dreams nothing more than a secreted knife
held from innocent birth till blemished death invisibly at our throats.
Pleasure at most only an accompanying solo on the fife.

War, peace, love, and hate at different times have been my way of life
each equally bringing forth it’s share of tears which I’ve used as notes.
Pain is the instrument on which we play the symphony of life;
Pleasure at the most only an accompanying solo on the fife.

© 2004, by C.I. Abramson

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