The Old Guitarist
The cold whirled into the room,
The breeze freezing the poor mans toes.
A sigh rattles in his chest,
His fingers strum the strings of his guitar.
Alone and Forgotten,
Death probably approaches,
His fingers strum the strings of his guitar.
A hum moves out of his dry lips,
His pale skin shines in the moonlight.
No more hope,
His fingers strum the strings to his guitar.
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