deliberate etchy guitar tunes
soft like pizza dough (spinning in the air)
cram
into a skull with too much
to think about
filling it in
possibilities (of candid entrancement and songs that
beat a soul till it
chokes, rasping to life) soon
panic dribbles out (a late
rainbow) your fingers becoming
too blood raw and tune tossed
unable to strum themselves
to sleep anymore
the recognition of pain
creeps up like the grim reaper
in a silent nightmare
ripping music from
the mind
and
quite unexpectedly you wonder the ways
a suicidal man would consider
before he made his final act his face
suddenly
dry and heroic
like the crumbling statues of
Lincoln in a park.