Twice bound to the once tree, it is neither hand nor hoof that holds me in my place.
His lyre sets, discarded, as are all things not of moment. This other liar stands so proud.
The metal has been sharpened, the tongue has been loosened. His finger wags my way.
They witness from a distance, with smirks and smiles, contented. We get what we deserve.
Never had I beauty, not like the face that shines before me. My breath is all I own.
To trap and pipe with reed, to capture sound and deed. It was music, for me, that shone.
What spoke through me brought wonder, a purpose unforeseen. Matching the divine.
His strings could not follow, nor catch the promise of my wind. His silence spoke defeat.
Then rose his voice, a sound that trembles spirit. Mere instrument could not compete.
“A cheater”, I spat after, “with every known advantage”. I’d challenged him tool to tool.
“These cords are my tool.” And his fingers tipped his throat. I knew that he had won.
My skin belongs to him now, my breath too will be taken. Nothing can remain.
The lyre proved a liar, but still his voice eclipsed me. My pipes cannot abide.
Once I knew a beauty that twice reached past its station. The loss had been profound.
Now I hold myself in place, await a pain deserved. Accepting where I stand.