There is a melody that sings,
of a dream lost in time, with music
that fits the space
that can’t be filled.
She is as real to you,
as the wood in your hands
and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar
that murmurs melodies about a world
too many understand.
What once was elegant boulevards
in Madrid, are now
a melodic strain
of fleeting moments, trapped
in colorless discontent.
This is an attempt at ekphrastic poetry, which I based of the X-ray version of 'The Old Guitarist" by Pablo Picasso. I highly suggest looking up this image, as it speaks differently than the one that is commonly known, and it may make the poem easier to understand.