“Tis not so sweet as it was before.”
–William Shakespeare
How, he wonders, is the manipulative
hand at work on the rosined strings?
She says one thing to another who knows
nothing, yet says the right thing to him,
but not what she intended. He laughs
at his paranoia, yet worries the truth,
one bead between his tangled fingers,
as if each tense fret sounded one
note through infinite manifestations.
It’s a proper fit she says to the other,
a jibe at him she only hints toward
in a snide attempt to convince herself.
Such are the turnings I have fallen to,
broken strains of a discarded love.
(September 5, 2014)
subtext 