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Jun 2015
Fingers like darts,
akin to fireflies,
zipping up and down, creating art,
along the fret board so the tune never dies.
Never stopping, undying,
Through the air, the notes are flying.

Striking out a barre,
slipping into a scale,
plucking the strings, in a swift flurry to blind like a star,
a needle sewing a tapestry that will fail to grow frail.
Never forgotten, undying,
Through your ears, the notes are caressing.

Until the plucking,
becomes part of you,
a song in the back of your mind, soothing your sighing,
coming to surface whenever your troubles come to face you.
Always remaining, undying,
Through your heart, the notes are building...

Until they're ready to be let free.
Through violence, passion, creativity? It's not up to me!
A little poem about my favourite instrument. It's both an inspiration and blessing to me such an instrument exists. I hope someone can relate.
Peter Watkins
Written by
Peter Watkins  19/M/England
(19/M/England)   
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