She Plays Guitar
© Surazeus
2018 04 08
The girl on the bench outside the cafe
plays guitar to catch the light of the soul.
Each time she looks in the mirror of time
her face becomes more blank till it is gone.
The more she writes her story in the book
the more she forgets all her memories.
Every day six men send her messages,
asking her to be the bride of their home.
She deletes them all and never replies,
so their words fall from her hands like beach sand.
The girl with freckles and long curly hair
carries heavy book bag that hurts her knees.
The girl with no hands commits a gaffe
then buries her face in the muddy hole.
She cooks scrambled eggs with sprinkles of thyme
to eat her sorrow in the wind of dawn.
She hides her story where no one will look
and locks her brain with gold angelic keys.
She gives her guests refreshing beverages,
welcoming musicians who like to roam.
She tells everyone she only dates spies
who discover secrets of the waste land.
No one goes with her to the county fair
where she eats ice cream float in the cool breeze.
The girl insists that we all call her Fay
because she wants to play that sacred role.
One summer morning she marries the mime
who performs strange stories on the church lawn.
She leaves the mask of my soul by the brook
that maps the epic quest of honey bees.
She plays guitar at fruitful marriages
in spells that echo in the thunder dome.
She watches heaven where the star hawk flies,
leaping on angel wings from her frail hand.
We are not angels made of rain and air
since we are statues on the temple frieze.
© Surazeus
2018 04 08
The girl on the bench outside the cafe
plays guitar to catch the light of the soul.
Each time she looks in the mirror of time
her face becomes more blank till it is gone.
The more she writes her story in the book
the more she forgets all her memories.
Every day six men send her messages,
asking her to be the bride of their home.
She deletes them all and never replies,
so their words fall from her hands like beach sand.
The girl with freckles and long curly hair
carries heavy book bag that hurts her knees.
The girl with no hands commits a gaffe
then buries her face in the muddy hole.
She cooks scrambled eggs with sprinkles of thyme
to eat her sorrow in the wind of dawn.
She hides her story where no one will look
and locks her brain with gold angelic keys.
She gives her guests refreshing beverages,
welcoming musicians who like to roam.
She tells everyone she only dates spies
who discover secrets of the waste land.
No one goes with her to the county fair
where she eats ice cream float in the cool breeze.
The girl insists that we all call her Fay
because she wants to play that sacred role.
One summer morning she marries the mime
who performs strange stories on the church lawn.
She leaves the mask of my soul by the brook
that maps the epic quest of honey bees.
She plays guitar at fruitful marriages
in spells that echo in the thunder dome.
She watches heaven where the star hawk flies,
leaping on angel wings from her frail hand.
We are not angels made of rain and air
since we are statues on the temple frieze.
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