Crooked fingers and final chords
Crooked fingers steadily vibrating on the guitar,
Heavy eyelids blur out the crowd,
The body trembles as the last chord is recited,
The floodlights blind out the distance, until all he can see is just an echo of himself.
His lip buds expose his subtle prophecy,
His eyes deeper than the sea that has absorbed all pain,
His nose glitters with the little line of cocaine still up that unholy hole,
The ocean, at the end of the road, vivid in all its majesty.
The eyelids much heavier now, impossible to fight
Make it all the more painful to keep playing, even when his body compels him to,
The stage beneath, a bed to rest,
The grave, now a haven,
Through all the pain, through all the journeys, throughout his life, one thing remains constant.
The fingers, now crooked, keep playing,
They keep playing,
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