A whisper in the silent hall,
A promise made to end it all.
The clock ticks loud upon the dusty wall,
Shadows stretch across the empty hall.
You look at me with fleeting, ancient grace,
A quiet, mocking smile upon your face.
"Not today," the cello whispers low,
"Tomorrow's winter wind will surely blow."
"Alright, I will soon," you say,
Pushing the dawn another day.
The stars will fade, the seasons spin,
Before your promised tasks begin.
"Alright, I will soon..."
The centuries dissolve like falling rain,
An endless loop of patience and of pain.
A symphony of grand, sublime delay,
A masterpiece of putting off the day.
But still I wait, beneath the weeping moon,
For the magic of your promised "soon."
"Alright, I will soon," you say,
Pushing the dawn another day.
The stars will fade, the seasons spin,
Before your promised tasks begin.
"Alright, I will soon..."
Soon... the strings fade to black.
Soon... but never now.