A hand reaches for the heavens
Trying to grasp knowledge
That the gods have hidden from man
A piece, a fragment of the unknown
A fraction of understanding
Of how the world works
From an outstretched arm
A hand grasps nothing but air
The truth can’t be stolen from the gods

A hand reaches for an instrument
Trying to grasp the notes
That are in a man’s soul
The love and hatred, happiness and grief
That lie deep within a man
But the soul is contaminated
And the notes turn sour
Society has ruined man
And the notes fall upon deaf ears
A man pleads, "Give me music!"
The rest is silence

A hand reaches for a brush
Trying to grasp a picture
A mirror of the world
A blank canvas on which the oils
Of many colors are laid to rest
But everything painted fades to gray
Losing its emotional impact
Losing its liveliness
Reflecting the stagnation
Of our one and only world

A hand reaches for a pen
Trying to grasp the mind
The thoughts that fill a man’s mind
That need to be spoken
That need to be told to the world
The page is still blank
And the mind will not function
Somethings are better left unspoken
But something must be said

A hand reaches for a gun
Trying to grasp the end
The chamber is full
And the instrument of death
With its finely tuned pitch
Will be played tonight
At the expense of its audience
A hand turns on itself
Pulls the trigger in spite
And thus ends the symphony of man.