Relic of

Just outside the vestibule the blues guitar plays, made from recycled bone.
The souls of the lost and those already gone, the notes howl and moan.

A pulse called rhythm; an atone for such a sadness that leaves empty.
That tale of hollowed tree's and owls that make storied words a plenty.

Reworking the past and lovers that have given so much of  their souls.
Taking and talking into the moonlight, in an attempt to fill emptied holes.

Those that once held together the innards of what was an entire being.
Now played out note by note upon the vibrations of midnight string.

 © Jeph Rants