The Old Guitarist

The sky cried bullets
Streets ran red
I hunched over my guitar
A single tear shed

The metal rains down
Screams are yelled up
I beg for a pause
For this mess to break-up

Then the clouds open
And nothing is heard
Just the pitter-patter of rain
And wails that are slurred

Down.
Down.
Down.

I sink deeper.
The thin walls hold my weight
As the rain gets steeper
The world’s a clean slate

Though nothing feels new
And houses are scattered
The town we once knew
Scarcely now mattered

Still, water falls
And I mirror the sky
The world becomes blurred
Guitar far from dry

The room now feels blue
And then I’m alone
Just an old man and his guitar
In a place I used to call home