There's always a broken string

Just playing with words tonight.  I haven't written any cheesy poems in a while:

There's doves at my window again.
They survey the earth like I study a page-
A string just broke on my guitar.
There's always a broken string.

Those starved birds never did cry.
Their steel-beaded eyes on tight-bundled feathers
dart towards the ground, beaks jutting down:
they can taste what the earth gives.

I lost that gift long ago.
I feed on what they teach me:
Thought and language, manners in time
There's always a broken string.