The epicurean analogy of a woman scarred deep.
Of her pallid heart, strings wound taut,
once made to give and receive freely
both the dissonance and tonality of true love.
Now, so delicately plucked by the
hands of a man who remembers, and remembers not
to forget her need for it all.
In truth, such a need he had known for so long.
Once did his own heart hum that same sad song,
melancholy memories of half finished featurettes,
Always cut short, for both timing and temptation.
He too fingers over scars, wounds which run deep,
Pain that scourged his soul and
marred the woodwork lying beneath.
Torn, the very framing, once lovingly carved from
such carefully crafted convictions,
and dusty blueprints, made for
a heart not yet hardened by
the desultory dogmas of this life.
He knows just that tune, oh, that same sad song,
to which all love-loss airs; indefinite.
Yet in truth, a musician plays not to hear, but to feel.
An artist paints not to impress, but to imply.
So too does he strum, her tender heart-strings
reminding her gently,that she is never again alone.