The Guitar

Lonely, he stands
a corner of my room,
Red iron bars upon he rests
white, in blinding gloom.

Once before the clock consumes
Yet another day,
He feeds upon the feeling
of more than willing prey.

As plastic ticks he sings
in a roughened steely twang,
Of what was once or could be
of dreams forever sang.

His past is not forgotten
but old home he does mourn,
Its wood cracked wide open
velvet sides are torn.

Now, all he has
are the bars he rests upon,
Dust is heavy falling
Time will end his song.