My Second Hand Six String
Obstructing light coming into the room
it stands by the windowsill
raven body smooth as jet,
covered in Irish cream droplets.
Carved hard into the surface,
around its hollowed mouth
an everlasting smell of
chestnuts roasting and freshly cut oak trees.
There my guitar sits on a golden stand,
and beside lies a tattered covered dog-eared book,
claiming the age of my second hand six string.
Dew drops left resting upon,
the silver steel my fingers run on.
When plucked they go clang,
when strummed they sing,
leaving a lasting memory of days and nights
of the time when I stretched my fingers,
pressing them hard into the strings,
and learned how to tame, this melodic beast,
so now it sings sweetly to me.