The second hand guitar

Am nothing but a second hand guitar.

Rusted strings;
Termites find a delightful home,
in the musty warmth of my sounding hole.
A sounding hole that can’t sound no more.
Dark cracks in the earthy rosewood;
Black dirt embraces the copper frets,
And gently chokes the pale plastic bridge.

Resting in a forgotten corner of my room;
Head delicately balanced on the moldy wall,
An equilibrium none too stable for sure.

I filled my room with art and colors
to make up for the music
that lived here once.

In the end
Truth unchanged,
“These colors can never take over the silence.”
The colors are all fading away
Silence alone endures....