Songbird

That hood, that scythe,

They’re for me.

I won’t let you take them,

Not even with a cherry.

This is not your calling,

Child of the Swan,

Song of Dusk,

This is not for you.

Broken Guitars

Shattered remains of a broken guitar.

Splinters I can’t put back in place.

Pieces don’t fit together,

I can’t mend you, my love.

I can’t fix what I myself broke,

Strings that now play this muted, ugly sound,

No longer reaching from end to end,

There isn’t enough glue in the world.

A blue guitar. Rosewood guitarist.

Disappointed. Demented. Distraught.

Want to see another break?

Hold me by the fretboard, snap off my headstock.