Derelict and disheveled,
lost to the world around him,
Isolation and his old guitar
the only company that he keeps.
No sign of discontent at his lowly fate,
Almost saintly, that horsehair vest
worn with benevolent grace
over emaciated limbs.
thin fingers caress the fraying strings,
the promise of music dissolves despair,
fills the air with a melancholy
that stems from within ourselves.
*The Old Guitarist…oil on canvas/Picasso-1903