The Violinist

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Soft violin strings

That blend in the night air

With all the subtlety of

A million individual breaths of air

Each supposed to represent

One note

 

Fair violin player

Thin and pale

With bones fine

Figure frail

And face plain

Her expression calm

And empty

Her stage is her attic loft

Silent and drafty

Cold that seeps through the holes

In her woolen clothes

No audience but the

Stereotypical rats that are witnesses of

Every stroke

 

She pours… oh how she pours

Her music

Her soul

Into every upstroke

Till rich sound

Comes

And cries for her

Tears she will

Never shed.

 

Never mind the rent that needs paying

The snooty orchestra masters

Who have no need of her passion

Her being

They just want technique and standard

And chords and each note

Played perfectly

 

Forget the family

Who disowned her

For tearing out her heart

And gently straining it

Through each silken string

All while she watches

So lovingly.

 

She plays of moonbeams

That dance through her broken windows

And of hunger for anything

More than stale bread

And of a love she left in her hometown

Who married someone else

Not her.

 

Someone who smiled at dance music

Instead of crying silently

As haunting violin notes play

Someone who can chat and dance and primp her hair

Instead of pouring her heart into

Her violin.

 

But that’s alright, she will survive

With the passion of each chord

From every sweep of her bow

And music that rises into desperate cries

And then wanes

Into a slow hush

And each vibrating string

She will survive with the,

Music within.

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About saharsalman

Aspiring poet. Spectator of life. Words of Whim.
This entry was posted in History, Hope, Illness, Journey, Music, Pain, Poetry, Survival, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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