The old guitar
Sitting in the corner, covered in dust
The bronze strings are covered in rust
The neck, a pretty maple

It was screaming
Screaming to me out of loneliness
Begging to be played with
Begging to be cared for

I picked it up and it felt at home
It felt perfectly right
Just as the stars belong in the night
So I began to pick a tune

The strings, littered with dust
Vibrated in a symphony of rust
They vibrated at perfect pitch
A bright heavenly tone was released

The old guitar still had a few more tunes
For my fingers to pick
A few more songs
That it wanted to play