The Guitarist

White washed walls

orange groves

basement halls

hidden coves

all these places

hand in hand

we played our hearts out

departed land


And in this dream world

I am not lost

no doubt to speak of

no consequence of cost


Your mahagony curves

and straight steel highways

play my soul

work to convey

all these thoughts

cememented in my mind

they spill out now

they stop time

This poem is about: 


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