Glow
Punmaker Extrordinare
(A poem that turned into a little bit of prose)
A young man stands by himself on a street corner playing his guitar. His only light is the gas lamp upon which he leans, gazing up into the clouded night sky, strumming his lonely tune. His fingers move deftly across the strings, weaving a beautiful tapestry of melody and harmony into the evening air.
A little girl stands in the dim alley behind him, listening. Too afraid to come into the light, she hums along softly in the dark. She knows the melody by heart. She comes here every night to listen to him play. She listens until he gently strums the final chord, letting it fade away into the night air before turning to walk down the empty cobblestone street.
The girl waits until he is out of sight before darting out of the alley. She runs over to the lamp. There, lying at it's base, is a small blue flower. She picks it up and smells it. It's fragrance is faint but sweet. It's delecate petals tickle her nose. She smiles, anticipating tomorrow.
A young man stands by himself on a street corner playing his guitar. His only light is the gas lamp upon which he leans, gazing up into the clouded night sky, strumming his lonely tune. His fingers move deftly across the strings, weaving a beautiful tapestry of melody and harmony into the evening air.
A little girl stands in the dim alley behind him, listening. Too afraid to come into the light, she hums along softly in the dark. She knows the melody by heart. She comes here every night to listen to him play. She listens until he gently strums the final chord, letting it fade away into the night air before turning to walk down the empty cobblestone street.
The girl waits until he is out of sight before darting out of the alley. She runs over to the lamp. There, lying at it's base, is a small blue flower. She picks it up and smells it. It's fragrance is faint but sweet. It's delecate petals tickle her nose. She smiles, anticipating tomorrow.