Instrumental by Gwil James Thomas



Through the open window
the four o’ clock sun glistens
against the fretboard as my guitar
glances back at me from
the corner of the room –
I’m not much of a musician,
but I’ve had more success with music
and certainly made more money
than I ever will penning poems,
but these days the only ones
that’ll hear me strumming strings
are my neighbours, or flatmates
and I like it like that –
as a way to unwind from the day
and the madness outside on the
blood and piss stained streets
before I stare at the blinking cursor,
and at that I then move the slide over
the fretboard as the guitar sounds
like a distant howl in a moonlit forest,
a rhythmic lapping
of waves against the shore
and then a traffic accident at rush hour
as I hit the wrong note –
I consider adding some words to the song
thinking back to one beautiful mess,
before everything was said
and smile as I find some different to play,
knowing that  some songs
like memories
are better off without the words.


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