A guitar is a wonderful machine.

It takes the anger, sadness, bitterness...and clumps it all together in a melody that twists from the strings, evoking whatever reaction the player sees fit.

Over the years, I’ve suffered in relationships (romantically and otherwise) until, finally, I made the only logical conclusion-love is fake. Or, at least, it doesn’t last.

But sometimes the world proves me wrong in the simplest of ways. I see love in a person with their craft. The kindness of strangers. The beauty of nature.

And the charged air between my fingers and the strings of my guitar.

The musician stroked the strings,

Of the worn and old guitar,

She strung a few chords,

To fill her lonely soul.

The sound was like the universe,

Breathing into her being,

New life, new purpose.

The lone musician,

Let a smile break out on her lips,

For the worn and old guitar,

Still served its purpose.

The musician stroked the strings,

Of the worn and old guitar,

And the memories came flying back,

Of the many times she had played,

With this worn and old guitar.

And how it'd gotten her,

Through thick and thin.

And she relized with peaceful satisfaction,

That this worn and old guitar,

Had served its purpose.