The music of strings
lines my mind, unties its crime
and spreads its wings.
Steel wrapped and threaded
through time and embedded
in the perfect key
it gets to me.
Melody loosens its soul and unfolds,
the harmonies begin to take hold,
contrasting and cold, everlasting
the sounds spin, thin but clear,
strife of guitarists life stories I hear.
Sweet and deep the notes keep
churning in my throat and I
My eyes' own ballads replicate,
some way my tears can recreate
the state of mind the song displayed,
though wrongly played and strongly
When fingers caressed,
the strings lingered, possessed.
I sit here affected, a nylon
string, unprotected, not steel
wrapped and threaded, but left
beaten and shredded.
The strumming, the picking, takes over
and over and I don't know the
reason, or the rhyme. All I
know is the place and the
time and the haste with which this
tune replaced my sanity and
spat back the flat black-tailed
final note on the page.
Left me here,
strung up and struck with fear
and rage.