An Indirect Ode to My Old Strings

What am I to do 
with a sound that heeds no muse? - 
with this devil-red guitar 
that wears one string one octave high? 
I'm lying; I knew well 
that its sonic-auburn spell 
would disappear: now dirty bells 
are all the thing can ring tonight. 

 

The strings were fine before; 
now they slam like metal doors - 
now, the music is a chore 
that bores and breaks my greedy hands. 

 

Oh, yes, dirty; yes, my home; 
yes, my beautiful, my known - 
for no cause at all, I've thrown 
away my timbre; killed my friend, 

 

yet all my voice desires 
is for the broken, the retired; 
for the love I chose to rend: 
for old strings 
to strike 
and bend.

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