The Lost Guitar

I've been sitting in this box for a while now,
Wanting to just come out,
I need someone to free me from this cage,
Before my tone turns to rage.

I've never been touched,
Emotionally or physically.
One day I will be played,
That will be my aim.

I feel the dust creeping up over my strings,
Like cockroaches running around a house.
It feels like a thousand years now,
Still wanting to come out.

My strings are frowning,
Bent and battered,
There's a light above me,
I squint and squirm until I can see.

It's my owner's snow white hands,
He looks at me with no regret,
And plays a sound more beautiful than a sunset,
A sound I've never heard.