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Instrument

The guitar sits in the corner of the room
And I wonder, does it wait?
To be plucked and played?
To sing my melancholy vibrations?
Left alone for months at a time
it sits in the corner of the room
And I in the corner next to it
waiting to be played
The strings of my heart pulled
To dance another’s merry tune
Or deep melancholy
Whatever they desire
Because In the end
I am ever her instrument

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