The Cello

The cello plays a poignant tune -
Crying for all that is worth,
And yet not meant to be.
The eye is not to see,
But be-
As a reminder of a mirror,
That it was held to be.
The chastened soul,
Must travel the bruised path,
Set to the tune of another's design.
For that's how it must be.
An impassive face meets stony silence,
Icy winds down the hollow graveled road.
The paradox pervasive in its duality,
The truth versus the unknown.
A silent need versus the expressed shared.
When the rage subsides in me,
Out of sight,out of mind-
Shall reign in a sense of wonderment.
In itself a peace.
Or is it?
Confusion runs in circles,
There is more than meets the eye,
I realize, or make myself to.
Or maybe delusion is all I seek.
The cello is more sitar like now.
The pace faster,
As I still reel answerless.
The raga more known.
As I remain immobile,
Clutching at straws.