His name was Jeff.
I knew his name and he knew mine.
But a name does not make the person.
He was amongst metal. Loud, boisterous, and dressed.
Continuing his trips, with his followers, a pied piper to shining masses.
Each happy, seemingly oblivious of his instrumental affair.
Even now, they straggle on, like sheep to the symphony of slaughter,
in groups of three and four,
footsteps always matched.
Once he returned alone. Twice.
Each time bringing forth new music, new harmony, more metal.
The monster never dies.

He disappeared again, dressed in black and gold.
Colors of trust to those who refuse to see.
With large teeth and protruding hip bones,
the cherry wood strings follow the metal.
The stage is set
can one truly sleep in his bed if it has not been made?

I knew Jeff before his change of face and heart.
Before his soul had been pierced by hot, thin air.
He was harmonious and deep, not...
out of tune. Pitchy.

His name was Jeff, and even now I see what I hope is the last sheep.
Drawn in with the lure of an audience,
the promise of credit,
the idea of something bigger than yourself.
His name was Jeff. It still is.
I am free. For now.