The Guitar

A guitar and a memory.

The guitar stood at the edge of the bed,

Untouched and undisturbed; to stay there forever

Even his parents would not touch that guitar,

In the somber nights where they prayed,

In his room together, alone, and in doing so,

His guitar became something else entirely,

A symbol of him; perhaps even a manifestation,

For that is what the spirits said, says the medium,

But I just don’t know all I know is that,

The guitar that stands at the edge of the bed,

Is no longer a guitar for me anymore.