Flat Top Box
With fingers skipping
across my flat top box,
an interlude echoing upon the air,
I am jettisoned into other worlds.
Acoustic tones of jazzy blues,
rings my ears and pacifies the pain.
Resonance of the wood sprite;
stresses the secrets I harbor in
the hallways of my mind;
intonations the colors of me.
Fingertips waltzing between
ebony-floored frets;
revealing timbre that lay within,
feelings read by cedar and spruce;
a treasured gift from the timber woods,
a altered spirit, is my guitar;
a miraculous flat-top box.
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