worn sinew
The beauty of a violin comes not from its looks,
its varnish, or its scroll.
No - the beauty comes from its strings.
For when the violinist lifts their tool -
bow in hand, ready to sway.
The audience cares not for the wood they see before them,
but for the melody that follows.
As the song unfolds,
as the bow cuts deep,
each string drawn thinner and thinner,
Still it shall sing.
And when the violinist is done,
when the bow is set aside,
when the audience stands and applauds,
it is the violin that silently sits.
Watching the show go on.
Waiting for its next song.
Withering with each play.
Wondering for when the time shall come
that someone, too, will wish for them.
royal vortex