Saddest Guitar

My guitar sits on a stand in the corner
Gathering dust.
It is not dead; I simply fear provoking it.
I imagine it weeping.
I would like it to feel Light
Something nostalgic, and gentle like Denver's reflection of shine and mountains
Something funny, even if it's pencil thin
Or deeply meaningful as an Uhura angel spreading her wings and singing amidst stars.
I would likely only treble it with Hurt, not so good
And reveal the cashless void of not having single line to walk
that was mine, uncharted.
I go along un-noted, unsung
And all because I fear taking her into my arms
Embracing and playing the way lovers should.
What a sad guitar I have.