Pristine wood
Without a scratch
Coated in a layer of dust

Silent strings
Touched only by the faintest glow of sunset
Longing to be graced by nimble hands with calluses and chipped nails
Dreaming of distant melodies tinged with care snd imperfection

Six shining pegs
Turned still and stubborn with each passing year
Stately soldiers waiting with determination
For the day the dissonant chord will call them to duty

A cold, hollow body
Plagued with the scents of fresh wood and of the warm and vibrant shop
Remnants of a time full of life when sound gushed through its veins
When the days were blurs of sunshine and green, and the nights were lit with endless fires, and the songs played on and on...

A time now lost
Buried in books and burdens
And nights too late for music

The vacant shell of the guitar will remain
Frozen soundless between life and death