six strings

They are children with no names and no faces, just wax hands and feet. They are the manipulable pieces of the future that have not yet breathed the air of purpose. They grow with each stroke and slide of the finger, the slightest movement synthesizing proteins and neurons. I find myself tearing them apart and putting them back together, always gingerly. But fear their pain I shall not, for their nerves are sewn by time. I am not nearly there...

Their mouths open wide, each pretending to form consonents and vowels. But I do not give them speech. Their language requires determination and delicate embrace. I loathe their silence and the practicality of process. Speak! Speak from the depths of your souls! Their depths stay hidden.

Her name is jazz for now. Her rugged approach to the softness of suspended chords eludes my thirst. She is the strongest and deep down I know why. She is the meaning, the representation of all that I hope to release. She is the climax, and perhaps also the slight subtle downsloping finish. She moves like a dancer, relaxing herself to the sway of an autumn tree. While she realizes her fate, she still calmly speaks of purpose. "My time will come", she murmurs, "my time will come." Do not delve into the fears of romance. They are the waste of thoughts undone, unleashed from their bounds of reason. A treacherous road and albeit an endless one. "My time will come". How much of her is me, and how much of her I have not found. This is the ebb, this is the flow.

He is a traitor, a relic of the past. His face posted on every street corner - a dictators hay day. And yet, he is my brother. He knows me well, a collected version of my past incorporations. His dictum is clean and callous, unafraid of the ambiguous truths that drain from his pores at every moment. He is the hypocrasy I have known. We have shared the same pen, the same sty. He is not wrong though, just lacking direction. A miscreant on the road to theoretical salvation. I envy his youth but not his age. He is a dieing breed and I love him for it. He refuses to leave though, the key of E, and to his chest he holds all of the cards. He is the energy and the fiery persona that will one day sew submissive seeds. His pompous arrogance will do us all some good. For today is opposites day.

"In death, we become alive. We manifest ourselves as new borns. We are the butterflies." I am left with wonder, and a sour taste in my mouth. To believe that the plates before us serve only the mighty, that we are endeavored upon to survive. JUST SURVIVE! This is not truth. This is malnourishment. I have learned much from the tastes of tomorrow, when sampled ahead. Let me not contest the mythology of greats, but let me say this. There is another one, just like you. A heaven disguised in green splendor and dark abyss. A place of worldly obsession that cradles not the dead, but the living. let us keep to that which gives us air, let us understand the true dignity of existence.