by Chinedu Ichu
Tragedy has struck the buoyant chord
The mahogany guitar is shattered
Its strings dilapidated
Has it failed to memorize its tune?
Laying helpless like ruin shielding itself
From the molesting tongue of the Gestapo
Acoustic babies blab
Grappling, wining and wallowing in self pity
We connected via telepathy
We connected via for better or worse
What kind of thought:
Transgressed from its wooden femur
Counting the crushed rib cage
Of dead castaways
Along uneven runway tracks
Why did you steal vanities spotlight?
We were meant to be here
Tangled on our white washed portico.