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The Harp



A harp, it twangs with sadness,
Her notes are cries of pain.
The touch of fingers can’t console,
Like blood forever stains.

The waves of sound, they ripple out,
I’m helpless in their wake.
And now my body’s shivering,
Each cell a stormy lake.

I’m quivering like cornered bird,
Electrified with hurt.
The energy runs through my veins,
My gasps the calm subvert.

Her song, I don’t consent to hear,
Its hypnotising voice.
Emerging from a chrysalis,
I have no other choice.

Too beautiful, the ballad sung,
Too poignant for my mind.
Like lullaby, it cradles me,
I close my eyes, resigned.

The goblins in my heart wake up,
Their wicked faces sneer.
Like Pied Piper she draws them out,
They follow without fear.

And down they plop, to wooden floor,
Like rats they run in line.
I breathe out slow, the sweet release,
The tingles along my spine.

To resonate, to let it flow,
The sludge of stagnant shame.
A stone I was, a static shape,
But now my heart’s aflame.

Yes, sadness flows but slumps, they don’t.
I loved her plaintive strings.
They taught me how to live again,
We were like singing twins.

That quiet light, the modest room,
At times I hear her tune.
It steals its way into my soul,
She takes me to the moon.


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