clueless and sullen broken strings of a ukulele tousled across the exposed sound-hole of its wooden body.
clueless, because they don't know where else to go.
enters I, into it
slumbering in a cucumber chamber wary of-ten sang songs.
*where he.
the walls don't murmur of the discordant ensemble of an inspired tune. where are the songs, cut off my ears already.
i now sit inside the carcass of an abandoned ukelele, dreaming of a lonely clothesline on a sea green meadow.
help me, seems like the walls are closing in.
but, but give me warmth. biting cold winds scar me.
i now feel safe in blanket dreams
unstirred by the ocean even when it spills on the hems of my cob-webbed sheer dress.
the spider, crawling on the outside while living on an inside defined by its own existence. i envy it's abode.
let me out
envisages the comfort of his two hands that would slip across my cold waist as I breathe heavily on the threads of my blanket. not wary, because he-re.
ah, dreams.
but, encumbers in fear of a thousands hands pulling me inside a soundhole, choking me with the strings that beg for purpose.
to choke, is to not die, but to suffer.
the strings cry happiness, they are now luxuriating in the spider's dream; spinning cobwebs around my tender neck.
help me
he-re, i can. but he-is singing, can't he-ar it anymore.
cluck, cluck *defunct*
clothesline drop dead on the ground, while the ocean closes in on the sea green meadow, glimmering in a faint glow of a distant petulant spring.
spiders weave cobwebs on the broken ukulele, on paused songs and silenced breaths.
