Struming on a street corner,
Plucking a pattern of notes,
Electrified and synchronised,
Briefly housed then amplified.
Sorted selected then escaped,
to dance to us on the air.

Each note falls and fades,
replaced with another and again,
A steady stream of creation,
from your fingers pressing strings,
Fliting up and down the frets.
Pause commence and pause.

Now your instrument lies silent.
Lurking lonely in the corner.
It feels its being punished,
for its nature's denied by you.
Spending silent hours wondering,
What did it do wrong?, To earn
this intense displeasure and ill-favour.

Music once encased your soul.
Now a polished coffin holds your body.

Nimble fingers lie lifeless.
An ocean longs to have them flex,
and flit up and down its frets.
Playing to create your own elegy.
Electrified and synchronised,
accompanied with mourns and wails.
God, oh God. Why couldnt it have been someone else?

Raindrops sound plip plop landing on,
your new patterned polished home.
Heads down afraid to look around
and see the haunted eyes of your ocean.
Each assembled to say farwell, goodbye.

Long after the ocean dissapates,
nature still sings for whats been lost.
Raindrops sound plip plop drumming
its steady beat of loss on your prison,
on your patterned polished coffin.

A best friend still lies lonely in a corner.
Rejected dejected and forgotten.
It longs to pick itself up and play
its own eerie accompaniment to this, your last day.