This Lyric is #195

Just A Guitar

Like Grandfather’s clock, this road’s winding down,
the curve of the hills is a favorite friend.
The fragrance of flowers gone wild in the fields,
summons you further around the next bend.
And the corn leaves are rustling like teenager plans,
the kisses in secret, the revving of cars.
The glare on the windshield’s the ring of new strings,
six notes and two chords to a bar.
Sometimes a guitar is just a guitar.

The moon rears it’s head up, as big as a dream,
battered old case rides the front shotgun seat,
while four white walls hum a Gregorian chant,
the tempo provided by seams in concrete.
And the radio mumbles no language you know,
bouncing down off of a wandering star.
Diminishing voices are flatted like fifths,
they clatter like coins in a jar.
Sometimes a guitar is just a guitar.

Sometimes the beauty is more than you hold,
exploding in waves through the air.
Some stories can never more truly be told,
some sounds are too lovely to bear.

On hot nights like this when the wind sighs your name,
like the tenderest kiss on the top of a scar,
when one moment shines like a spot in the dark,
and one note is all that you are,
sometimes a guitar is just a guitar.

copyright Dan Hazlett 2006


[This message has been edited by Kaley Willow (edited 06-08-2006).]