poems of Frigidity: PLUCKING*
Plucking The hapless cries of a banshee Are alone in mind Throughout this epiphany. The instrument could be played If dissected, plucked and slain Into imitation Of violin strings. Enough with…this fiddling. The chords are not built for this. Enough with this fiddling. Settle for the keys If you’d... Sign in to see full entry.