by Mike Bayles

Created on: September 24, 2009

Guitar at Hand

Metal strings and wood make sounds

greater than the sum of their parts.

Chords, the angel's sound,

flow through me.

Well-formed notes

come bitter, come sweet.

They sting, and they please,

measure by measure.

I want to cry to the sound

when seduced by notes bent

by the master's hand,

resonating from a solid body.

I close my eyes

and let the song,

driven by riffs,

take me to where it may.

The concert holds me

long after the encore

and fading notes.

Overhead lights emerge,

while the performer accepts applause

as his own, until he takes his companion

backstage to be alone.

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