Guild
Thud of rosewood softens at his fingertips as he takes his noise to every ear in earshot.
A backdrop. A snapshot of forest and snakeskin. Auburn and butterscotch stairs reaching a dusty attic hung with cobwebs like curtaintops. Cabin must and rugs with shapes of eccentric symmetry. Pine tree arms hugging with their sly faces peeking through the window. Deck lines grinning parallel teeth, sand, footprints and chairs like cavities; our bodies like sweets. Shadows sundried and charcoal smudged and everything but ours. Alcohol tasted on breaths but not on tongues. Starlit sunroofs and milky ways into coffee mugs.
These are the sounds out of his twenty year old guitar, that no one else can hear but him. It is why he is broke instead of rich.
A backdrop. A snapshot of forest and snakeskin. Auburn and butterscotch stairs reaching a dusty attic hung with cobwebs like curtaintops. Cabin must and rugs with shapes of eccentric symmetry. Pine tree arms hugging with their sly faces peeking through the window. Deck lines grinning parallel teeth, sand, footprints and chairs like cavities; our bodies like sweets. Shadows sundried and charcoal smudged and everything but ours. Alcohol tasted on breaths but not on tongues. Starlit sunroofs and milky ways into coffee mugs.
These are the sounds out of his twenty year old guitar, that no one else can hear but him. It is why he is broke instead of rich.