You haven't heard before.
The thumb-strummed low string walks
Stumbling the garish night
On the bones of the broken
Sharer of folk-song poison
We always enjoy, clapping and cajoling
As the dark doors close
Without transcendence or meaning,
For the darkness within
Finds redemption in the distance,
Where the suffering can be seen,
As if its being consists of wandering,
A friend who might drop in
At anytime, to remind you of what or where
You might have been,
Pulling on your string with his chords
And a jug of wind.
They pass through so silently,
These troubadours, almost lost
Amid the noise of conquest and surrender
On either side of the glass,
To walk unseen with the other drunks
Down the dark illumined docks,
Where the sea's another theory
For the way we feel right now,
Deserted by a moon we once believed we had become,
And run out once again of illusions.
Though the shimmering had resumed,
It was already gone.
You won't even notice it missing,
With the guitar, in the morning.
