Plight of the Guitar Player

My fingers burn and bleed
A passionate fire
tempering and nurturing
a slow growing seed

The strings cut deep
The sound is stained in red
To be one of the greats of old
Those who have already bled

This price is worth the pound of flesh
for the symphony in my head
Invading all conscious thought

…and then I sleep

But there is no sanctuary
for what burns inside my veins
This haunting melodic intruder
seducing beyond refrain

My feet are beneath me now
running to repeat that sweet… sweet sound
Only to forget the moment, the memory
without a pen to write it down

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