03 Nov 2015 – Prophet
Strike the strings, your pick cut cold from stone.
Fret and finger, name the winds you’ve known.
Ache and echo, reverb in reply –
two hands tapping ’til the feedback dies.
Every eye upon you, up on stage.
All listen, you’re the prophet of the age.
You’ve nothing left to give them but a song.
What else of you remains once you have gone?