Golden fingers
dance your dance;
on maple and rosewood.
A dance of war?
A dance of love?
Conquer barren ears
of sterile souls.
Each string quivered like
a rapier tip drawing first-blood
from an opponent unknown.
My heart wounded by
that, the silver sword,
as each note found solace
within the tissue formed anew.
When the healing is over,
the prickling, the tingling,
the memory of which I had
no choice but to keep;
settled deeper than
a tattoo on the arm of a foolish man.
Each scar an account, a motion
of someone, some time, somewhere.
With your fingers of gold
And your buckling blades;
golden fingers dance your dance.
Run me through once more.
Copyright © 2002 Terry Stephen Driscoll • All rights reserved.