The Young Guitarist

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I wish I could stay

But there is only games being played

The games by the children that scatter around you

The little tip-tap of the drums

Or the crash of the symbols

Some stops of the feet

But what you find most intriguing

Is the one boy

The boy in the corner

Who sits as the others run around

 But he has something the others don’t

The guitar

He sat as the chords flowed through his fingertips

Like wind on a sunny day

He would gracefully let out a hum or two

But it was in the guitar

Every time he would look up

You could see his soulful blue eyes

The eyes of the ones that had passed him this gift

The God that had made the greats to make a great

You could see him starring in disbelief

Someone actually listening to only a few strums

Then he would look back down at the guitar

And play

But I can no longer stay

The noises from the other children give me migraines

I can’t handle the pressure anymore

 

I must leave

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