Stringed

Strumming the guitar with his chapped fingertips,

The rhythm flows through his every cell,

His eyes flicker to the tiny drops of blood,

Never feeling satisfied,

Wanting perfection becomes a boon and a bane,

He knew his destination was not an easy path,

By now he was far away from home,

His head was a clutter of chaos,

Never did he want it any other way.

His heart was stringed and open with wounds,

And the journey was the only one that could mend them.                                     

                                                -WN

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