Invisible Strokes of Guitar
I had just retired to bed
Around midnight, perhaps
Soft strokes of guitar
First I got startled
It was a one room facility
Not a mouse in sight
I alone was on tour
On my office duty
Puzzled, I looked around
A velvet soft tune
Almost intoxicating
Coming from a little far
I can't recall
When exactly it induced
In me a pleasant sleep
A soft palm on my forehead
Made me spring out
With my heart pounding
My hands hit a milk can
It clattered on the floor
The musical notes stopped
Was someone playing guitar
In the adjoining room
But that would be unlikely
It was an old bungalow
Built by British rulers
In early twentieth century
The walls were pretty thick
I got frightened
Was it a haunted house
Was I dreaming
The guitar again started playing
I pressed the calling bell
A weird old man with a Fedora hat
Sporting long white beards
Guitar began playing again
I ran downstairs
The main gate was lying open
I spent the night in a park
My purse, cell phone
and credit card was missing
The care taker failed to explain
According to police
The building had a history
Of mysterious visits of spirits
The sound of strings was enthralling
As the evening was drawing near
Someone pulled me toward the house
I tried my best to stop my feet
Come, I'll put you to sweet sleep
A velvet voice whispered into my ears
_________________________________________
September 21, 2019
Note: I wrote this poem for the contest with the theme of haunted. As I was submitting, I came to notice the prescribed line limit of 16. Perhaps presbyopia.
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