my guitars laugh at me

my guitars laugh at me
they stare at me from across
my room and bury their
sweet songs in my arrested
Time's ego - When I was
a younger man and how they
ridicule my supposed misjudgment
to caress them nightly - How
they once tested my love
of the medium and now
just lament - The strewn
pity of an almost broken
spirit and the dreams not
realized, though kept at a
distance of my own inner
strength and weakness too…
 
There were some moments -
Time enjoyed and captured by
the imaginations of friends
long gone - pretense of glory
built to withstand the hardness
of life, brief as it was, and
thought to have lasted forever
 
- we were there, in the bask
of light and smoke of gatherings
 
- we gave them their fun if
only for fleeting, and we
got it back a hundred fold.
 
Then all was gone as
if crushed and repackaged
- relined and revived then
more and more just faint
echoes of drowned out fury
until only shadows of smoke
remained and then that was
gone too  -  syncopation dissipation
with other responsibilities brought
to the surface in this sea of
consciousness… As the
guitars laugh at me from across
the room as their wooden bodies
age and grow harder and harder
unlike me…