Sometimes when you're sad
I can hear you sneak.
You return to what you had
and your peak is what you seek.

A tear slips, escapes and drips
on your wooden harp.
The pain is sharp and brown
like your eyebrows when you frown
even though you're wearing your fifth gown.

And you're back but lost.
You lost connection to what you were,
not who, because the change
was slightly saying that all
you did was playing to wash
away the loss.

The strings or lines could have been bars,
the accident caused wars
in your identity.