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.