Yellow sunset in the distance, fallen leaves announce the start of winter, but not yet. Guitars mourn the parting of life, not yet gone, but so far away already.
If all those days had stayed, I wonder... but days can't stay.
Like smoke, they drift away into the distance, and I can only smell their aroma as they pass by, and then not anymore. The fire burnt, the smoke drifted, and all that's left is ashes, memories and the inevitable mourning to which I am obliged.
More days are to come, and they, too, are to go, and one day the train stops and we must come out. And out is nothingness, void, oblivion, nonexistence. There is only meanwhile.
Whereas during the meanwhile, nothing means (for meaning does not transcend into the next plane: nothing transcends), everything means for us, trapped in a temporary illusion. Meaning dwells in us and then dies; it means meanwhile, then stops meaning.
And meanwhile, we mourn meaning, for it will die, and we are certain that everything dies, but matter cannot disappear, so it doesn't die in the end, and yet we mourn, for we will not be there to see it later. Just later, sometime in the future, like old friends. We won't have any friends after we're gone, there will be no friends, only an arid everything that will mean nothing in the end (though there will be no end).
And there won't be autumn guitars after autumn.
Have always loved playing guitar in autumn, it's a good combo! Thanks for the post. - Embertime
:) Thank you for the comment too. I also love playing guitar during the sad moments. It's very cathartic and carries a strange beauty to it.
Reading your write up was so nice. My mind got at work from the very begining.
:)
I only know how to play the drums but always fascinated by the soulful melodies from the guitar.
As the bitterness of the heart pushes the fingers into action on the strings, so it's melodies soothes the heart.
Most people are prisoners,
thinking only about the future or living in the past.
They not in the present and the present is where everything begins.
-Carlos Santana
The present is where everything ends, all your memories. Even your predictions are a line from past circumstances to present conclusions, all tied to the future, always near, but never touching it, since it is impossible to traverse forwards without being in the now.
Everyone is a prisoner of time. Even in Nirvana, we would simply choose to ignore this aspect of reality and explore others, but nothing would change but our perceptions.
Great poetry! I like the way you refer to guitar as a living thing with feelings that can mourn
Thank you, Alex :) I'm glad you like the key theme! It's one of my favourites.
You're warmly welcomed
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