The image of frailty
Despair
He sits, legs crossed, decrepit, ghoulish
A skeletal ghost, the guitar his medium
A crooked spine holds his crooked frame.
His torn shirt exposes a bare shoulder
His fingers, living tendrils, expose his bare soul,
Blue envelops him, heavy like fog in the air
He shuts his eyes to escape his reality
For he needs them not to look
He sees with his hands
Those fingers, they are still alive.
They are his ears, his eyes, and his beating heart.
His throat, his mouth, his voice.
He needs not speak, nor play a single note
His song is already heard.