My finger travels on strings 
Like train on tracks 
Sometimes like a local train 
Stopping at every other fret 
And sometimes like some express
Covering a whole lot of distance 
Before pausing for a moment or two.

My fingers slide 
From one string to another 
From one fret to another 
In turn creating symphonies
Which are sometimes an ethereal bliss
And sometimes an unfathomable chaos 
Like creaky old wooden doors 
On warm humid days 

One hand keeps the strings chained 
While the other sets them free 
Setting into motion 
An oxymoronic event 
And myriad frequencies 
Reinforce on each other 
Forming melodies of utter finesse.

They say all your prized possessions
Leave behind scars
And so my fingertips carry calluses 
From this wine hued acoustic creature
Signifying battle wounds 
Which i'll always be proud of 
Aren't you?