Literature
The Guitarist
It is a fragile line,
A note.
Held suspended by the air
As if a snowdrop,
Curling gently in its descent,
Ever wavering,
Never capturing the attention
It rightly deserves
Spinning, broken,
Destitute,
Like a careful little finely-tuned melody
To the trained ear
His fingers have been tormented
But he cannot simply stop.
The point of no return
Is a much more dangerous place
Than they let on
He plays because he must,
And in that string,
In that note,
There is his meaning of life.
Glisten like a snowdrop,
Glide like an albatross over the sea
Perhaps today it will make a difference.
They drop pennies in the hat at his feet.