I wondered what chords you strummed in your dreams,
as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed
by the arguments in my head. I fed you the lies
you wanted to hear, so you could feel safe.
Your fingers twitched and I feared you would wake, break
the silence with your violent orchestra, your frustrations
fuelled with the vast libations you practically inhaled.
The challenge of children and a ‘normal life’
aged you before it could be realised the shackles
were forged by a man wearing your face, sharing your shame
and whistling what you could only whisper;
whilst you mastered the art of faking.
You dashed your own dreams, instead of dusting them off,
and the motorbike man who didn’t give a damn, died
as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed.