The Rock Star



The Rock Star Sings A Tale Forever Unknown


The rock star sings. Yearning I, his guitar plays on. Wail my eyes, sobs of gray heart. Drums declare rage those nights, those shrouded nights of betrayals.  Dusk


at the superhighway, we, like firing planes, or motorcycle laps, or fighting cocks, unheard by eyes that pawed, snare elements of crumbling hearts.  Madly he


drives, and in the brake, to the gas station, I jump!  My night beat dares his whore!  Gripping on the crown, petals wilt but steady sifting the vestiges of the  


night wind, serene, blowing chants pleading skies, moon and earth; despair faced, to hide from ourselves that loss,  a solitude of vows, warts and all.  “I know the


look of an apple…”  My hair sizzles.  I brush my hair, my long, lonely hair in that dark nude corner of loud music in an empty stadium.   My heart, dismal, like


unburied volts of thunderous lighting, screams.  “Show starts soon,” the disc jockey waves to me.  “Oh, yes, I hanker for the rock star!”  Vacant seats lure my


imagination.  A titanic empty arena bows to reverence for music; my lonely night of regrets hides, sleek in time forever unknown.  Night throbs, croons the rock

star into me, “Love hurts…  Love wounds.”   In a screaming dead night of pain, I sink into his eyes, and wait, until his song to finish weeping.  Echoes reaching into


the grey. Bravo! Bravo!  Hides the moon, the rock star sings a tale forever unknown, in a saving grace of notes, perhaps — to weep for my heart.




January 2013

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s