Christopher Mason | + Follow Poet |
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I Was a String

I was a string
a piece of thread
my many visions entwined
spun in great 
arcing motions
extracted form the core
and woven
by these hands
twisting feverish
and intense
sometimes inspired
after midnight
I’d rise from dreams
to draw these
precious cords from myself
and how I’d marvel  
to see them shimmering so
in the subtle light
as secrets
born in the night silence
so many colors 
made to touch
intimate
but inarticulate you insisted
when so relaxed
undisciplined
my youth was idle
my passions were not serious
if sometimes pretty
or playful
so you taught me
molded me
made me
purposeful
you pinned me down
and stretched me
tight
until every movement
was a laceration
and still you pulled
straining
to make me ever more
perfectly precise
I cried
I prayed
for the fibers to snap
to break
but I did not break
you would not 
let me break
for then 
I would not make
the same resonant pitch
every time
you touch me
I would not
sing so beautifully
to your caress
like a harp
or an angel
I would be coarse 
unrefined like a hair
or branch
frayed in places
as cloth worn close
to skin
touching softly
warming
but you have made
my edges smooth
and flawless 
as a wire
that I might ring
with an immaculate tone
with a voice
that does not waver
or shout
or whisper
or ever
in stillness
breathe too deeply

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