The Guitarist

Under the greasy harmathan

I once saw a man

Standing by the gates of fleeting hope

With a voice that hung on a tiny rope
Of blistered fingers

And sweaty palms

Dancing in strums 

That reeked of slums
A hat on the floor

Begged the swinging door

For food to eat

And ears for his beat
And when l stopped to lend my ear

The rhythm picked up gear

While the hat begged my hand

To touch its hand

Chukwuka Chukwumerije
Chukwuka is Poet, Writer and Storyteller who loves to travel. He's the Publisher of Yolar Magazine and the CEO of Primedux Ltd. He lives a life of passion and adventure and he teaches others how to do the same.

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