[ WP ] Playing and making music is a crime punishable by death . You strum your guitar .

A lone man in a lone land it's been too long since he sang a song. Troubled by this future his deeds gone refuted he wonders whether his gift, not curse, was worth it. He took a deep breath and stared into the sky wondering how he looked in God's eye, but whats it matter now to poor ol' Mr. Pokelton. 
 
 The men and women walked about without a care for the lost stout of musicians now dead and hunted. Mr. Pokelton took a few dreary steps into a business building to his left entering from the side door unseen by the those thought to be keen. He traveled up the stairs, one by one, without a care his final breath, not soon to be spared, he knew only one thing he could possibly be left to do. 
 
 With every floor came new memories of friends long past waiting for him to share in the final ceremonies. Would they all greet him with happy reprisal, or curse him for knowing their denial. It's hard to say but dear Mr. Pokelton could hardly stand to stay in this land that rejects him. He came to the final door on the final floor for the final hour of his final scour. One undue grunt escaped him as he relaxed on the roof of the business building, realizing that one happy song ought to be the last before too long. Otherwise the world would think, `` A ha, cheerio be gone you freak!'' unknown to them would be the power and gift he'd hidden. 
 
 So he sat on the roof top and opened up his case to reveal his instrument of his personal taste. An ol' cheap violin that had served him well through years of his reign casting his spell. And so he began to play. Nothing new to the old years of a veteran who'd heard Mozart, Beethoven, and the musicians of Letterman. All in person and on tape, though I guess the new kids today would n't quite say it that way. A hippy old tune with a sad chorus to happen soon, he just could n't hide his feelings to his audience today. 
 
 `` And so I say good bye. 
 
 Fare-thee-well to music and cheery disposition, 
 
 I've tried my best to fulfill my mission. 
 
 But in the end it's how the world works, 
 
 At least for today with the laws in place, 
 
 There is no place for Mr. Pokelton to lurk, 
 
 And he just ca n't wait out the race. 
 
 For perhaps the world might grow to change, 
 
 And become a better place for music of greater range, 
 
 But I ca n't seem to foresee that to be true, 
 
 So I'll sing a final song for all of you. 
 
 And you will listen until the final rhyme will glisten, 
 
 For my gift prevents you from missing the final queue, 
 
 No ending the song early or ending my dreary worry, 
 
 So let it not be said that I left you with any dread! 
 
 Live long and listen for all you hear is from a musician, 
 
 The bangs and crackles of the storms or the wiggling writhing of the worms! 
 
 You ca n't escape without crushing the voices you insist on hushing! 
 
 So begone your childish disposition and behold the finalization, of my mission.'' 
 
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 [ This was a continuation of this story I wrote a while ago. ] ( https: //www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2mq6l6/wpwrite_about_the_story_of_a_man_who_has_the/cm6nwzo )
