Orchestra of One

The music of
a metaphor,
theoretically sound as it may be,
is intrinsically
flawed.

Off key,
autonomous wrongs
combined to make
me write

blood on the
walls of notebooks
sprawled across my being.

If I’m not
an instrument
you’d count among
orchestras,

that’d be the
smoking gun;

I’ve been playing as one
but hearing
strings plucked
in unison,
rapid-fire
drums
and haunting vocals

of a vixen who
sings that

she’s never
found love.

There’s only
the metaphor and I
at
the mic,
imaginary
spotlights and
a paper stage.

Serenading
empty space for sport,
the only concert I
ever wished to
play
live.

We can’t all be
rock gods
anyway.

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