Dead Instruments and the Scent of Flowers

A blind man jumped over a cliff towards the scent of flowers.
Is this retirement?

Only half blind
I felt the weaker pull.
I put up my fiddle
and pushed my harp into a corner.
It looks good there.
Its polished black walnut skin
displays my dust collection to a T.

I am often woken in the night
as yet another string snaps angrily in its sad redundancy
and gives up the ghost with a crack.
Gutless harp.

Although not quite.

During the day if I pass by absentmindedly close
the viper teeth of string ends nip playfully at my flesh
hoping I will catch tetanus.

Like the blind man I jumped over a cliff.

As I fall
the scent of flowers is not getting any stronger.