Apocalyptic

and when you think about it,

some of the sounds are slightly

(just slightly, like a whisper)

cryptic.

And beautiful, beautiful to fit the women

he describes,

to fit the decay and the chaos.

The love is in the notes he’s written.

 

A perfected art of Emotion;

and what am I, if not

the weep of the guitar,

the voice?

The man whose fingers

pricked the flow of Life,

wrapped themselves in a fist around

what soul is left in me.

 

The man leaves his cable plugged

     into a tree in the woods somewhere.

 

He is one of few who knows

how to bend the string to make it

Move.

One forgets what beauty belongs to in his presence.

One finds themself

the Prey,

pinned to a thorn.

One forgets what it was like to walk before being Reborn.

 

He is lovely. Lovely,

the kind you lose your consciousness in.

Vibrato used to make you Be,

the low, low trill of the man’s voice.

You forget to love him because you don’t have a choice.