the heart as a stringed instrument

the glide of hearts
conjures a music not unlike
stringed things in a deep cavern
where the echoes come and go
and come again
just at the moment when you thought them
passe and passed forever.
here is the never never land
where I can stand
and with a straight face
confess the disgrace
of believing in something
I cannot touch with hand
or heart
or string tied to destiny.
it is luck that plucks the mandolin
to spit sounds like a rooster at dawn,
to match rhythms of compositions,
to match the reality of our lives.
sing along.
sing along.
sing along.
for I have forgotten the melody.
and am asked to lead the orchestra
from memory alone.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Thank you Brigit, for the inspiration. Sometimes I forget my place, my station in this life and linger behind. I am weary and know no solace. Just regret.