Finn's Guitar

The moon’s bowl sits alone,

fireflies in conversational eddies,

alongside the sky’s gentle pinks and orange.

She’s tangled in thoughts that silence cannot rearrange,

her breath held in a tight, unresolved tension,

The weight of the world piles in tandem with tan lines,

bestowed by the sun’s rhythmic cycle.

My thoughts marinate,                   in a broth of regrets and unsaid words,

A deck of cards whose suits beg to be straightened,

I toss my sour curses, into the night’s empty stomach.

A man sits, a silent enchantment.

He holds a guitar, six strings, limitless chords

Each note patiently waiting for their turn to be played,

He beckons all to join him.

His nails gently scrape against the metal coils,

He speaks words of nothing,                                           and everything spills from his mouth,

in ways so melodic that

the moon unlids an eye, turning her ear to listen in.

Feel and see what did not cohere

The strings pull like thoughts from our hearts;

Troubles dredged up to the surface, to meet the moon’s healing glow

The sacred devotions kiss our lips goodbye, on a road to fill the night’s bloom.

We hold on to each other’s lyrics in little glowing portholes,

Peering into each other’s journeys,                              shared, but not one like the other.

And just for a moment, we become one, bonded by voice cracks and failed harmonies.

We are braided together by the twine that bends, clipped by the fingers shifting pressure,

The man holds the guitar to his heart, letting his lyrics speak

Our journeys saturating what we hear, and how it makes us feel and sound

Not one like the other

And we pave a common ground, firewalking this soundscape

Our voices scraping together a collage of torn polaroids,

A vase of broken mirrors.

The moon takes her breath.