Harmony

the-old-guitarist

Newspaper thin brim,

soggy cardboard

masquerading as a hat,

hides eyes

inexorably drawn

to his Lady

 

brass knuckled spine

settles into home position.

plucking at the memories

weighing the air with their

spices and pinches.

 

smoke of a forgotten cigar

curls lazy protests in the corner

ash sputtering indignantly

onto the smirking dirt

 

greasy ink tipped fingers

trace the spiraling

whirls and grooves

of his melodies

 

Humanity shatter pulses around him

tick boom smash

everyday life

unable to stop

unwilling to be tamed

an imperfect canvas,

battling the scarred neck

and smudge battered body.

 

None of it matters

She is his Lady

He doesn’t play for us.

 

their Voices

soak the air

ensuring he won’t be forgotten.

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