The Guitarist
look at you, i mean really, look at you:
the way you string your guitar as if you were its string
as if the words you make flows away the tune your bundrum makes
as if it were the way every nirvanian cell or atomic mote of some headless headphone,
functions and speaks
in soundless mode as the way everything moves in the seas of mourns.
as if it were that dark tragedy and everything in between that collides us
with a rather unfulfilled birth:
a short anonymous long-shadowed revery
that calls on each and every line from horizon to horizon
everything that rhymes with your instrument's only unstitched
masterpiece note: a comment for humanity's old-wooden box
in which our lies speak upon itself, to which our truth speak upon itself
and over and over again a gain is made together with this steel of full-blown
knife: making nothingness out of something, lying this burden over the everything.
Eveything shuts itself like an open leaf on its very last moderate talk.
the way you string your guitar as if you were its string
as if the words you make flows away the tune your bundrum makes
as if it were the way every nirvanian cell or atomic mote of some headless headphone,
functions and speaks
in soundless mode as the way everything moves in the seas of mourns.
as if it were that dark tragedy and everything in between that collides us
with a rather unfulfilled birth:
a short anonymous long-shadowed revery
that calls on each and every line from horizon to horizon
everything that rhymes with your instrument's only unstitched
masterpiece note: a comment for humanity's old-wooden box
in which our lies speak upon itself, to which our truth speak upon itself
and over and over again a gain is made together with this steel of full-blown
knife: making nothingness out of something, lying this burden over the everything.
Eveything shuts itself like an open leaf on its very last moderate talk.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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