The String

Listen to the tones and the hues of music,
Such things do not come from down below, and
If they do you shall know; if you choose it,
Risk the loss of the music in your soul. Bland
Becomes the guitar, it's string broken, by
Choosing to play what is so clearly dry;
Forged in the depths of time was the sword that
Sings through the night, blind as a skyward bat
Screeching in vein to see the colors hues
As he believes falsely to be his dues.
Tone my heart with a serenade of song
That moves me to tears and to sing along;
Let souls be satiated by it's ring,
Lest trolls be invited by evils string.

                                             The String, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012