May 20, 2008
The Guitarist

Your crowd marvels at you,
Like a king upon his throne,
And then die down to hear,
You play a song that you’ve made known.

You listen to the silence,
And then begin to hear,
The pulse of your own music,
That comes to meet your ear.

You play as if on instinct,
To great heights you start to soar,
You feel everything’s moving backwards,
With glee crowds begin to roar.

You start to come back down,
As the song comes to an end,
Look down to your guitar and stay,
“Thank you my old friend.”

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