Self-indulgent plaything

The troublesome Dm change is all self-consciousness, and yet there’s no one here but me – so what’s to fear?

The flowers in the corner bleed their beauty.  Short-lived sadness crammed into a crystal vase.  A burst of life that would have simmered slowly in its native soil, only known to those whose bones would one day lie beneath its roots.

And now the varnished back lies up against the cushion and the strings are still.  Silence lays its body open to the hiss of tyres upon wet roads – hypnotic, swinging into aural focus like a pendulum.

Time hangs heavily, stalling, pregnant with the morning and a web of cares that track like ice on glass and twice as brittle.

Agonising, should I fill the silence, still my thoughts, release my fingers, send them running free as insects out across the frets to find that troublesome sound?  Or should I yield to darkness, force the day to halt and sleep?