Memories tied up in strings
Wood, picks, saddles, and tuners
Plastic and brittle
My mind wanders around the bracing
Through the saddle and what I am facing
What is holding these memories
Why do I hold them true
The memories are not captured in these
Rather in the simple thought of them
Memories come back
Slap me in the face on Wednesday morning
Overwhelming me with no warning
What is it that I try to keep
That I feel I must take
These plastic distractions forsake
Asking me for a place to stay
Asking in a moment forever
and not knowing where to begin
–
In the end it is just a collection of
Wood, pick, saddles, and tuners
It is nothing more
Nothing less