• It sits in the corner
    Black and red, faded
    The screams and cries of its fans
    Crowding to touch its surface
    Gone and faded; along with its owner
    Its records, its achievements
    In dusty cardboard boxes.
    The strings lie in wait,
    Desperate
    to be plucked to life again
    By some young rebel
    with lava in his veins
    And fire for a soul.
    Hoping, pleading
    To make something beautiful
    A reaction
    A laugh, a tear
    To wrench something so utterly human
    From the most unmovable
    Of critics.
    So it sits
    And waits
    For its magic touch
    Like Orpheus's Golden Harp in the Underworld
    To sway the demon of music
    And live in the most
    Unattainable
    And desired
    Of lives.
    That of something
    Unreachably
    Beautiful.