There in the room on the topmost floor, in

Shadows concealed by the crook of the door,
Alone, in shadows, in corners, it waits.
Hidden in there, all its strangeness, a bait.

It’s here the music box lurks on and on,
Fit for no purpose except its own song,
Watching all those who walk simply past, and
Waiting with beauty no other can pass.

It sits in all seasons, key in its lock,
Getting much older each tick of the clock,
Waiting and watching each chance pass it by,
Curious that they won’t stop, it always wonders why.

But no one stops to wind it up,
So it can never play.
It can never make the music
It promises each day.