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"The Guitarist"

He enters the room, As the crowd grows quiet
Many have seen of him before
The image of that which they wish to see is now present

Taking his seat, Feeling the warmth of the spotlights
Clearing his throat, Soft voice greets them with but a single word

As the song rises from the heart no one knows what his is feeling
Drinks are poured as warm looks are exchanged between lovers
His role has been fulfilled but another night

Songs continue one by one
Memories exposed to those who are present
Not a trace of a script is present
He sings of that which is felt

Occasional requests float from the darkened faces
Fingers float above the strings as the soul soars to another era
Questions are whispered amongst the regulars
Is that a new song?
Is it a reflection of his life?

Blue eyes remain closed as the mind exposes that which is within
Words and melody combine, Becoming the vehicle of the mind
They speak of that which has been seen, And that which is desired

There have been those who wished to share of his world
But few have ventured to such a place as the one in which he dwells

They know nothing of the man who lives alone in the forest
To them he is just The Guitarist

A Poem By The Quiet One
Copyright © 1999 All rights reserved.


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Email: quietone67@yahoo.com