Violin

 

We play each other like the violin

Stirring the bows passionately, yet stoic

We play ourselves, so profound.

Jarring notes, mingled sounds. 

We caress, fumble and then jumble,

The  Rachmaninoff, the Beethoven, the Bach.

The ballad, of a lost love, or a saga of a broken heart. 

We rein in, then gush out. 

Aimless, pizzicatos, vibratos. All over the place.

We play to downplay our fears, 

Burning nicotine in ashtray. Or hold the elixir of delirium.

Then drown our music in oblivion.

For we played each other, until one us was the virtuoso.

And the other, a collateral damage of the aggression of a maestro.

The crescendo is near. We play now, to end misery.

The curse of our own eternity. It echoes, then there is silence.

Then there is numbness. A robotic pliance.

The stage is set. Thunderous applause encore,

We are yet to describe the stories untold.

We play the strings, the bow swift.

Polish the contours, left.

Your spotlight awaits you, your tune pertains you.

While music resonates abject deafness

Yours is from the heart, open, crystal. 

Breathing fire, then pouring rain.

Mine is perturbed, and vague.

Because. It’s scarce at some, then strangled

Kindling ashes, in it’s wake.