The curtains are blue. The literary cognoscenti, Those obliged to animadvert the literal, Are nothing more than cantankerous, Fastidious, fools! Quite simply: The curtains are literally blue!
He stands upon his stage, Guitar in hand. With no introduction, he plays. Fingers perform a double speed foxtrot, Teasing notes with finesse. Bouncing harmonics with flare, As he cascades the frets. He stops. pauses. Soaks in applause. He changes his tuning, He changes his presence, Encapsulating his audience softly. Without warning, a palm-muted strum Races against the previous timing, Deep, trembling chords shake In between the rhythmic pattern, Tattooing their sound in the ears Of all those it teases. Then, without a strum, The notes stream down the mountain, Quenching the thirst of the dehydrated. The second hand joins, The current ebbs in a new direction, As the intensity builds. Serenity concludes this piece. He takes a seat upon the stage, Looks upon his worshippers, Momentarily. But then dedicates all attention, To the curved bust on his lap, Trails his fingers along her elongated neck, Tempting new notes from her strings. The double handed caress, Leaves her trembling melodies, Harmonies, scales and patterns. Her wooden form obliges, Becomes slave to her master, And ensnares all who hear her pleasure. The sound reaches its climax, Leaving a room full of onlookers, Satisfied, sated and desiring more. The guitarist bows, And says 'thank you '
Folded delicately in the corner of the room, Limbs collapsed around each other, Coordinated in the most triumphant defeat, And holding the empty treasure chest loosely. The corner is dark. Perched gently upon trembling limbs, Facing introspectively, hiding from sight, But searching for the last piece of gold, Or the last diamond hidden inside. The corner is dark and lonely. Holding up the crumbled shell, Two porcelain feet jut out, The tips curled over and cramped, But not strained by its empty container. The corner is dark, lonely, and cold.