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:
Me