I step outside of myself wrought with stress,
And reach a grasping hand into my chest,
I hear the snap of a chord that I held,
And gasp for air as its waves outward sail.
A grey mass, head of my instrument’s life,
Had contorted around in the curious strife,
It now turned through strings and the bent-fore neck,
And that long tangle snapped in a noisome wreck.
All the while, body rested meek and whole,
Aching harsh in its mahogany soul,
My touch fills it with a renewed embrace,
And suddenly it emanates grace waves.
I play on, then, while the instrument heals,
To find the power in play when wielded,
For the depth of soul is meant for muses,
And sails are.caught and breathe when they have bruises.