Maton

Sitting. Waiting. Solitude. Encased, locked, released only by my hand, mine and only mine. Once perfect now scarred, scratched, dented. Used – and at times – abused. Her worn exterior speaks of bond and lasting beauty.

Cold, wooden, lifeless at first. Slowly warming under my hand, flowing, stretching. In fading light through darkness, dying night until dawn, across years my stress, pain, love, euphoric in music transformed.

My other. My first. For life.

Not my only.

Darling put the guitar down and come to bed.

My only.

END

Thanks for reading my poetry. I’m really keen to get your feedback and to know if you liked what you read. Please leave a quick comment if you could.

Cheers, Ishmael.

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