Broken Chords

He plucks the strings of herĀ harp-

a broken chord; mysterious, unfamiliar,

vulnerable.

He was not delicate; his touch graceless.

From faultless to fault

only takes a moment.

And now?

The melody lingers on the stroke of the past,

whilst the next note takes its turn-

mistakes manifest.

Unable to comprehend the future,

an unfinished harmony, an imperfect cadence-

what next?

The ensuing note is slumped…

Waiting-

overcome by passion,

the strings are plucked so hard

they break-

into a chromatic mess.

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