Literature · Poetry · writing

The Guitar Man

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             THE GUITAR MAN

     I’m about to start the engine of my car
     When I see an old man with a young
    guitar         
     Who is singing and whistling.
     His sores are open and his eyes are
    closed
     And he’s got lice and flies all over his
    clothes
     But I get down to listen

     My soul can hear the song he sings
     The way he plays and strum the
      strings,
     My soul can hear it all.
     His tears rhyme with every word he
says
     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
     coax
     Even though his voice does quiver.
     He slips and weeps as he sleeps
     through dreams
     And streams of whims that he
     slowly swims
     In the depths of a poetic river.

     I watch him play every single note
    While his pure tears drench his
    ragged coat
    As he sits there looking small.
    He sings out loud in cold despair,
    He sings of the love that we do not
    share;
    His songs have said it all.

    He walks away as he ends his song
    And leaves me there with a
    speechless tongue
    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.

By Damyion

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