DYING FALL

I’m an old guitar-
A tuneless invalid,
Broken-stringed,
Moth eaten to the core.
Leaning for decades
Against this destitute column
In this destitute corner.
Kept just for old times’ sake.
Some shoddy memories attached,
And the Sanctity of Music.
Why don’t someone just
Chop me up and throw
Me in for firewood?
Instead,
I get ritual dustings
After four score years
When spring-cleaning
Visits the attic.

I have listened to birds’ songs,
And the clasps of thunder,
The patter of raindrops,and
Felt the genial rot all around.
Lizards have crept over me,
Spawning in my hollow.
I have withstood the birth of generations.
No anger is directed towards me.
I have no story.
No warm-lit halls for me,
Nor the cheers of performance.
Wine has never trickled down
My polished mien in callous mirth.
No one wrecks me up in anguish.
Returns me to whence I came:
A mass of deadwood.

I hate my artistic cut,
The purpose thrust on me.
I would rather the log
That lies strewn and
Hapless,beating rainfall and sunshine,
Ant-hills and exfoliations,
On the soggy forest floor.
A life before a Life.