the lonely jukebox and the unforgetable rain

Rain pours on him, sitting alone in the hole that he made for us.
A pocket filled with dimes, and my juke-box will play no matter the circumstance.

Ballerina's don't play for money.

The rain blinks, a simple gesture, but we're not lonely anymore.
Should we forget the sweet innocent sorrow in the voice of rain.
Should we forget the laughing hiccup of the juke-box as it's noticed for the first time.

It's dusty, the juke-box.
It's dusty, the Ballerina.

And the rain washes away the dirt.
The rain falls and entwines itself, past the Ballerina it washes over.
The dirty Ballerina, with her feet buried in the ground.
It entwines itself, it dances with the dirt.

The rain is trying to find itself.
The dirt never had itself to begin with.
The poor Ballerina is drowning in a problem she never even knew.
The poor juke-box is playing for no one.


We're all starving.

The dirt and the rain mix together.
And the Ballerina's heart, permanently glued to the ground, grows in this new soil.
And it's such a shame. Because that poor Ballerina never knew what she was getting herself into.

Sitting alone in the hole that he made for us.

And it's really a shame.
Because that poor juke-box will never understand that his unrecognized talent is the reason for this growth.

And it's really such a shame.

Because my dirty FILTHy Ballerina doesn't dance for money.

She dances for the rain.