Emile

About Emile

My guitar won’t leave me alone…it craves my touch. She calls to me in the night with her soft petulant moans, incessant and maddening. She wants to possess me, to control me…maybe even destroy me. Time is on her side as she faces the eventuality with a smugness that sickens yet somehow elates me.

My guitar cries softy in my hands and the cries quickly turn to screams of passion. Those cries touching the God source yet somehow still squirmingly decadent and evil. Is that Satan’s voice or is the voice of an Angel?

“Satan was an Angel,” she reminds me with a smirk. I know that she will provide no answers that aren’t questions and no lies that are not truths. I try to distance myself and turn a deaf ear to her calls but my efforts are futile. She knows this and savors my distress, my uncertainty. She knows I’ll be back…I always come back.

And now once again we are one or perhaps we’re more her with every breath and every note. My guitar is a beautiful sleek sexy banshee and her cries call you to the rock. You watch yourself go to her as if watching a silent film. You fall into her arms welcoming the oblivion, if only for a short time. And as you bang your head against the Siren’s rock you realize a glimmer of predestination and perhaps even completion.

“You are mine," she says and you nod softly as the serpent's coils encircle you and you walk off into the distant night.