The Guitarist

I feel like I’ve been silent longer than a week, but I have not. Thanks for your continued readership. For your reading pleasure today, a poem inspired by a guitarist in my favorite band.

He steps on stage, unaware

Of the affect of his music on my soul.

His fingers caress the strings,

bring forth

Sounds only angels have heard.

As the song intensifies,

his fingers move faster and faster

and with a different type of intensity.

Long toned digits moving with a flourish

only time can bestow.

He plays on and on, glancing occasionally

In my direction.

He knows nothing of the affect of his music on my soul.

The music surges

and his hands weave a spell

on the strings of his guitar

and he knows nothing

of the affect of his music

on my soul.

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