D Composition

I am composed of transparent lines,
striving toward opacity--
a ghostly blank scale
with bloody clef in your image.

I am rusted guitar strings
stretched, tuneless, over
warped wood.
When pulled and plucked
by your graceless fingers
as you attempt to bring me
into tune--
Leave off! Let me gather dust!
--the tension breaks
and these rusty strings slice
your fingertips
or pierce
your shortsighted eye.

Short Draft, Hwy 129

There are birds screaming
in my head.
The colour of their voice is peacocks.
Whether I understood them then
but not now
or now
but not then
is immaterial.
They have always screamed
non-sense
and the colour of their voice is peacocks.