A melody lane less traveled; disheveled.
The bridge on his guitar had shifted
bending the notes wildly and leaving his rock
quite unrolled. They called him “Bird” because
his riffs were flights of fancy,
retreats into heaven on rather unstable legs.
This “devil’s music” was more than they could bear
but he didn’t care. He had fallen victim to its power,
knowing full well that no man was an island,
but just put him in a meadow with his guitar,
and the music would soar to fill the angels hearts.
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #115