My heart is...
A guitar clasped too tightly
In my hands; to let go, the death of me
But my fingers hold on as though on a trigger
Force, a click, and then a release
My mind and chamber seem empty
And the words and bulleted fingerings are blocked
From this wooden plane arises no sound
No movement, as if death has already breathed
Upon my fingertips and left them all
Immovable and uninspired.
Dead, for lack of a better word.

06/24/2009