The song roars through cheap blue headphones—
I’m your dream, make you real.
I’m your eyes when you must steal.
I’m your pain when you can’t feel.
Sad but true.

The distorted guitars blast
simple power chords
and repeating riffs.

Its hypnotic:
the bent notes, rapid slides,
blinding rhythms.
Calloused fingers dance
over a rosewood fret board,
edging close
to the sharp angles
of a flying V guitar.

Here I can lose myself,
drown out the conversations
of hospitals and facilities,
treatments, Alzheimer’s, depression.

I turn up the music,
and block out the world.

I’m your truth, telling lies.
I’m your reasoned alibies.
I’m inside, open your eyes.
I’m you.