The elegant script
of calligraphy on yellowed paper,
marred only by
the spots of tears
that had once been.
The curves in every letter,
distorted through the glass,
a plea for help,
an attempt at survival.
Apart, the letters were beautiful,
but together, dangerous.
The loops of black ink
played a dance with each other,
twisting and interlocking,
moving gracefully.
Yet there was no mistaking
the music that played,
of darkness and depression
and loneliness.
The loneliness of a man,
who had sent out a message,
a note in a bottle,
in hope of rescue.
The loneliness of a man,
stranded at sea,
all those he loved dead
all those he craved far.
The loneliness of a man,
who hoped to
use his dearest possession
to save himself.
The loneliness of a man,
whose dearest possession was faith,
disguised as a piece of paper,
a pen, and an empty bottle.
This loneliness transcended through worlds,
appearing in the music,
the music of the words,
at which letters danced
and black ink cried.
The music of the words,
at which paper groaned
to take the weight
of letters both harsh and soft,
dancing forever.
Yet the sacrifice of the paper
and the joy of the letters,
the sadness of the ink
and the music of the words,
did nothing for the lonely man
who was long gone
when the note in the bottle
had found a rescue.
The lonely man had gone,
cursing the note in the bottle
for listening to its music
and not to his desperation.
When the man
was finally found
all that remained was a skeleton,
clutching another bottle,
another pen,
and another paper,
in the hopes that they could do
what the first could not,
and stop
the music.