Concert at Trafalgar

At dawn he began to play with the ghosts of Trafalgar

his chords flew into the sky like flares calling for a certain kind of man and so they gathered

with creased brows harsh, rugged faces… they all knew the taste of a bullet piercing through a brother

they listened for hours around the somber statue & in the rare moments where he turned to look he sometimes saw the inkling of a tear egging him on

he wouldn’t forget these faces later but in that moment he had to shake sweat to song two lungs near puncture against the beating burden of his heart hands bleeding through the strings eyes glazing over brow arched downwards mouth tightening for the last riffs–

dead men sculpt pain of the scars pretty enough to carve into stone.

the living are afraid of all the scars they cannot remember.

the music is all he has to stop the stones and scars falling into place.