At night when light is fast asleep the moon will weep. Its friend, the sun, just steals the fun. Don't cry dear moon, all will be fine - no need to pine, you'll feel the kiss of song and bliss. The sun will rise with tired eyes, to it's surprise the nights cold stings but moon now sings.
Cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello. When lost in the fears of this mortal skin, cry to me the tears of a violin to quell all the shouts that echo within. Should ego become my new bedfellow: cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello.
Outstretched legs that could reach the sky, And nails long enough to lose an eye. Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined, Face tight, flawless, and often kind. Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise, And affection that came at a price, Back tickled with golden hair, A body most beautiful bare. Elegant movements, jeté, plié, Childish as very cliché. Parents who raised their child right, With the grace of a mythic sprite. Shame everyone else had loved her too.
I am years of depression in the making, A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate. Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience, Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning, To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering, Or to will my heart to cease beating. I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain, And I am played over my own disturbed backing, Pretending every moment is a blessing, When really I am gluing my pieces back together, Finding discarded shards all over my psyche, Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am bursting at the seams with rage, Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania With the snapped threads of my heart strings. The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws, The seething grit that sits in my grin, Aims as inwardly as it does outward.
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 '
The Poet Armistead 