was she plucking
at his heartstrings
or was it something deeper
or just something lower
a hunger he forgot to feed
a desire
a longing
a sinful intervention
from his melancholy

was it the color of her lips
or the curve of her smile
the wet scent of her hair
or the soft skin of her neck
that drew his attention
to dreams of lust

or was it the play of words
that set the stage
of his imagination
to a fairy tale
of tragedy and love

was it all
just fabrication and myth
a vain attempt
to mask loneliness
as perfume and poetry  

to hide tears that reeked
of heartache and desperation
hours of solitude disrupted
by an ugly sob
a boy lost in the labyrinth
of broken man

as she plucked
at his heartstrings
was it the slow dirge
of a funeral march
or was it a song of redemption
she played from his heart

A room devoid of life
no less bland
than a hole in the ground,
but with a little more light
functional, bed, chair, table
and an intangible fear
of something it has (in abundance)
time, and plenty of it