She strummed her guitar,
and it wailed so sweetly, ethereal, airy, and heavenly.
A sadness so sharp, and deep, it cut so minutely.
That guitar, that rested so gently; tan overlaid with fresh country roses, reaching around the sound hole.
She strummed a melancholy so rich it flowed in to your head like soft, warm, velvet, mud.
Those unearthly songs sung
from her guitar.
If I had the chance, if I wasn’t swept off my feet, I would have noticed the songs that guitar was singing for me, came from no strings, no strings could be seen, and in the midst of my deep reverie, she stood and stepped forth, right before me, with her pick between her middle and pointer, glided across the tender flesh of my throat and held the guitar up into the spray as it wailed,
catching the spray of my blood as it sailed.
Then I was pulled out from myself and drawn through the sound hole to add to the quell.
My empty body just swooned, and I watched as it fell from my place in the classical wood and wailed in a spell.
Soul Guitar
Poetry in the Dark 