The Guitarist

I see your hands,

With callouses on your fingertips.

I see the indents on them,

Not quite faded yet.

I see the band-aids on your fingers,

Proudly displayed like the marks of a warrior.

I see you cradling your exhausted arm,

Assuring everyone that you're fine,

That you need only a minute's break.

I see your eyes narrowed in abject concentration,

Not bothering to push your hair away from your eyes,

As you perfect your sync.

I see that flicker of nervousness across your eyes,

As you near your battlefield.

I see you grip your weapon and manage a smile,

To encourage the rest of your team.

I see the steel in you,

As you face the battle.

And I see the grin of pure joy spread across your face,

As you overcome the fight.

I see you now,

Handling your craft with your expert, calloused hands,

As you help the eager new talents ease into the fray.

I see you now,

And I smile,

Because you are the warrior I hope to be,

As I pick up my weapon.

I see you,

And I strengthen my resolve.

I see you,

And I follow your path,

Walking into the battlefield with my head held strong,

And my conviction mirroring yours.