Sta.sh
He sings of things that were and are,
Sitting in his office chair,
A man and his guitar.
And though his mind meanders far,
The chords contain his every care,
He sings of things that were and are.
Those calluses, like hard-earned scars,
Speak temperance and not despair,
A man and his guitar.
Now syncopate, now by the bar,
Now dissonant, now fair and fair,
He sings of things that were and are.
I caught his music in a jar,
A leaky one. I stop and stare:
A man and his guitar.
A glow too cool to even char,
A brief but distant signal flare,
He sings of things that were and are,
A man and his guitar.
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