The Musician.

You walked into the world, all those years ago,
With the promise of a glorious future, success,
Fame and adoration tempting you on and on.
You opened your mouth and sang, and people
Listened, and your voice had the power to entrance.
You ran your fingers over the strings, and
Allowed a molten gold web to be woven, and
Cast it across your audience, and saw them fall in love.
As the years passed, you moved from band to stage
To band, to studio, to band again and again, each time
Choosing a small part of yourself to reveal to
Anyone who was listening.
Slowly the life became harder, the audiences smaller,
The bookings less prestigious, and the appeal of
The things that blanked the mind grew ever stronger,
The beer, the wine, the wacky baccy, and
Late nights and smokes began to take their toll.
And so, eventually, you walked back out of the world,
With the promises not fulfilled, and broken now,
Disheartened, your muse defeated and laid to rest.
But just some of what you did lives on.
Some of your work will never die.

© 2ndwitch, 17/01/16

(My thanks to the owner of the guitar, who probably does not even know I took the photo, for the image.)

Moonbeam and red wine

And as the day is dying,
Fading slowly into night
The red wine caresses the sorrows
And soothes them into a dull pain,
Making them feel more bearable
And at the same time
Harder to bear.
Memories, swirl and eddy in the
Wine glass in my hand.
The music changes to something
Sad and melancholy,
And the words echo in the
Wine glass in my hand.
And the day is dying,
Fading slowly into the
Dark hours of night, the hours
Populated with demons
And ghouls, and memories
The haunt and taunt
And pass their frozen fingers
Slowly down the spine, all
Shivering in ice and the
Wine glass in my hand.
Peace shatters, and shards of
Pain are sent flying into the
Softest flesh of remembrance,
Whilst the day is slowly dying,
And its grief is dissolved in the
Wine glass in my hand.
And there is born a desire,
A wish that will not retreat,
To scream and cry, and most
Of all to lash out and slap
Those whose insensitive words
Belittle the pain that is held in the
Wine glass in my hand.

© 2ndwitch, 23/10/15