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The Guitarist
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Love The hall is dark yet rich with sound
A voice of wood and string is sung
In the corners lonely notes resound
Mere echos of the song begun
For her a mournful tune he plays
In each tone a lifetime seems to float
His guitar speaks all he cannot say
So much conveyed in a single note
His hands weave music in the air
But it is her they ever long to hold
Instead a fretted neck he bears
As a string plucked story slow, unfolds
You hear her laughter in a chord
Her smile in his ringing tones
She's played on a rosewood fingerboard
Though under all a sadness drones
For here he strums in the dark alone
Such a song he writes for none to hear
And she so far away from home
Will never know this song sung clear
