The Guitar

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The Guitar

https://www.pablopicasso.org/old-guitarist.jsp#prettyPhoto

https://www.pablopicasso.org/old-guitarist.jsp#prettyPhoto

https://www.pablopicasso.org/old-guitarist.jsp#prettyPhoto

Zion Sawyers, contributor

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The strings are gold lines

That let out a melody of peace

The guitar is my past

That reminds me of happy times

 

My strings are strong

And some are thin

While playing them

Remind me of where I’m going

And where I have been

 

Guitar, Guitar

You have taken me far

From Russia to Italy

I plucked your strings faithfully

 

The guitar talks to me

As no human can

It never complains

Or never condemns

 

It stays silent

Standing in the corner

As the world sometimes should be

But knowing with just one strum

Peace can still be heard

 

It’s tones can be soft,

Sometimes dynamic or harsh;

Much like my appetite.

But unlike culinary invitations,

I have better control over the strings.

 

Beauty is vain,

Favor can be deceitful,

Flattering lips can all but destroy.

      But the love of my guitar will ensure

                   I never wake up lonely.

 

Men have doctors for the body,

Physicians for the  mind and even soul.

But my guitar and its soothing notes

 Have tender empathy for my shortcomings

 And healing, therefore, for all.

 

The call of nature is a tune some hear,

Whether through a whispering wind

Or a thundering rain.

But the sound of my guitar, when in perfect tune,

Echoes a harmonious joy I can’t explain.