THE GUITAR MAN
I’m about to start the engine of my car
When I see an old man with a young
Who is singing and whistling.
His sores are open and his eyes are
And he’s got lice and flies all over his
But I get down to listen
My soul can hear the song he sings
The way he plays and strum the
My soul can hear it all.
His tears rhyme with every word he
And also with every chord he plays,
His tears are about to fall.
He gently pokes with careful strokes
And kisses the strings with a gentle
Even though his voice does quiver.
He slips and weeps as he sleeps
And streams of whims that he
In the depths of a poetic river.
I watch him play every single note
While his pure tears drench his
As he sits there looking small.
He sings out loud in cold despair,
He sings of the love that we do not
His songs have said it all.
He walks away as he ends his song
And leaves me there with a
I stand still there for hours on end
Like a portrait on a wall;
But still, the memory lingers on
Of the guitar he laid his fingers on –
My heart has become a guitar too
Because his song had said it all.