Martin
9 - 28, 1999
*Weather*
Im Picking,
A color,
Of the rainbow.
But, only for your face,
Today.
And Im Strumming,
A lake,
To stay elsewhere.
Till a string snaps,
Internal bleeding,
Trees,
Die.
The string,
Painfully wept away from,
My voice.
Burrowing itself,
In the soil.
I try to grab,
Its tail.
Only grasping a slither,
Through my fingers.
A new string,
Hangs itself,
From a branch behind me.
Poking my ear.
I put it on.
It flexes its body,
Creating a finely tuned,
D.
I begin to play,
A sonata.
Once I started,
The whole world,
Listened.
Every guitar,
Voicing was felt.
It suddenly started to rain,
The birds automatically,
Caught the drops,
So I wouldnt get wet.
Sadly,
The trees flew away,
Following the lake,
I moved.
