Sheet music strewn,

spread across the floor.

Case thrown open,

it leans against the wall,


White rosin

powdered on the bed;

the bow ready for use.

Scratched in its antique body,

Violin lies dusted;

the years taken its toll.

Fingers on the fingerboard,

the bow screeches

across the strings.

I hear nothing,

only sadness and frustration;

sounds speak what I can't.

Yelling from the world,

the screeching stops,

Violin lies on the bed,

powdered white strings,

fine tuned, intricate design,

scarred, but untouched.