Girl with a guitar

Deep within the hollow of her guitar
was her treasure trove of riddles,
riddles that had no vocabulary,
riddles that sang to those who sought.
She merely thrummed and strummed,
yet the sound was uniquely hers,
exotic and mystic, a true likeness.
As her nimble fingers started to flow
and ebb across the frets,
she was hitting all the right notes,
striking all the right chords,
fuelling the fire of her untold stories.
It wasn't just a melodic tune,
it was the rhythm that escaped
from the crevices of her soul,
it was the cosmic resonance of
the chants of her inner goddess.
Behold the journey of the ascent,
for she is no slender lass,
never one to forsake the highs.
Behold the ending with no end,
for her crescendo must live on.

She merely thrummed and strummed, yet the sound was uniquely hers, exotic and mystic, a true likeness.