The Quiet Guitarist

The Quiet Guitarist short poem

Photo by Lost Albatross

She rocks the stage with elan
Speaking not much with her clan
Music her soul her heart
Hands always moving like a work of art
Strumming with fourths eighths and sixteenths
Counting 1234 in patterns of beats
Never a count she would cheat
Sweet and shy as a coy
Only her guitar her toy
Shiny bright green red or black
They are her jewels her trinkets
Her fondness only in strings frets and picks
Wirecutter winder saddle bridge
All her playthings
Ready to fix anything uncanny
She is a one woman army
So well dressed worthy of a look
Whatever out of her closet she took
Pink yellow purple black
Red orange green dark or light
She always stood apart as a shining star bright
Her smile lighting up
wherever she would take flight
Mesmerising everyone with her perfection
And men women gather near her for attention
Some jealous of her beauty and grace
Coz she always could fit in never out of place
Talent luck whatever you may say
She had toiled by night worked through the day
Nothing in this world comes easy
But they always say its fun and breezy!!

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