At the stroke of midnight, as the small town sleeps. A poor aging man plays a tuneless tune that was soft, caring, wistful, and fragile of only body man could call love. Playing endlessly until morning without stopping, to where his fingers are blistered and garish raw red from playing.

Having little and to nothing, but thin wears of clothing, keeping him, warm on the coldest nights. With his back laying heavily on the stone, cold, rough plaster walls of the building of where he sleeps.

Once thick and dark hair now faded to a ghostly white of thin transparent of twine. Eyes, once full, of endless goodness; as well, slowly drifted into grays of blindness and heedless. Only having, the fainted, memories of his love, guiding him, thoughtfully through, the harshness of life, itself.

Skin of white snow tinted with blue hues of dying, with wiry veins souring with copper and iron. Lacks of muscles hold the skin in place, having the rifts of fleshly folds sunken his face more.

Lingering smells danced upon his skin, masking in an odor of soiled dirt that he sat in every night, sweet bread and milk of meals past, fine oak from the very thing that kept his heart pumping and soul begging to come true. Oh, how he wished for her return. But leaving the heavens never seemed easy as others say.

If not for how he become then, he would have never found his love. In following years to come, on the corner of the street where a man of blue played through the starry nights of cool seasons, many can still hear his tuneless oak guitar strum the last notes as the winds fly by. As a reminder to hold dears one close, for who knows, when they are gone the next.


The Old Guitarist by Pablo Picasso

Made in the year 1903

Location of where painted; Barcelona, Spain