"The Old Guitarist"

Corner of his top-floor apartment,

            Shadowed by silhouettes

                        Of taller buildings

            From a late reflecting moon

 

Only light

            From an office

                        Across the street;

             (A young man sits at his desk,

                         Not yet found love

                                    Not yet found passion)

 

And a young child just born,

            Or a lover who just died,

Rests in hands of the dying man

 Holding her gently

            No harm to her delicate frame.

Fingers intertwine with strings,

            A lover’s fragile fingers,

            Every pulse reaches his heart

 

Concerned with her alone

            Forgotten what matters

                        No food in days

                        Skin faded with dust

                                    Clothes unkempt

                        Sleep no longer exists

                                    As death lingers nigh

 

            Death may come

                        Before he wishes

            But no one else exists

                                    She stands by

He clutches her until time ends,

                        Taking with him her every singing note


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JumpsCurbs
Poetry
Free Verse
writing JumpsCurbs
I want to hear everyone's comments, good and bad (but always constructive), on my poetry. Any and all advice is greatly appreciated! No need to sugar coat it.
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Synopsis
Inspired by the painting by Picasso titled "The Old Guitarist"
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