I am he
who blistered and
purpled his aching
fingers, upon playing
the saddest, dissonant
melodies out of
his old, untuned
guitar, whose strings
of somber used-to-be's
he ceaselessly strummed
and plucked under
the dullest starless
night sky; and
sing of his
weeping heart the
poetry of melancholy
notes half-composed.
It is me--
the lone guitarist
on broken avenue
who never stopped
playing his love
song of rue
since you left--
whose only lyrics
is your name
and your words
he dearly kept.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
I am he
who blistered and
purpled his aching
fingers, upon playing
the saddest, dissonant
melodies out of
his old, untuned
guitar, whose strings
of somber used-to-be's
he ceaselessly strummed
and plucked under
the dullest starless
night sky; and
sing of his
weeping heart the
poetry of melancholy
notes half-composed.
It is me--
the lone guitarist
on broken avenue
who never stopped
playing his love
song of rue
since you left--
whose only lyrics
is your name
and your words
he dearly kept.
