Bass.
The pads of my fingers
tug at thick strings and
through the amp
drives a low thrum like-
molten chocolate
dark and full,
a metallic twang, heavy spring rains
dripping with syrupy warmth
yet powerful and real. I am here.
Listen to me. My sound
emanates a vibe of
authority.
I support the band around me.
Without the foundation
that is my sound
they arise as stringy and broken.
My bass hangs heavy
my fingers clamp down on the tight wires
and it feels natural
Metal and velvet pulse
striking your eardrums
Perfect. Like this instrument
was reserved for me.
Author's Note- You know what's funny, I'm not even that good at bass. But when I was a freshman, it was a magical instrument, as opposed to the dying animal noises I made on the trombone in band.
YOU ARE READING
Six Feet Underground
NouvellesA compilation of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and poetry from wherever your soul goes when it dies.
