The Burning Violinš„
She is the kindling.
She is a smoldering promise, dwindling.
She is the hollow vessel where sound bursts to life.
Yet she is born with the tender reverence of a wife.
She is smoky ashes where a memory belongs.
She is a nothing among the throngs.
She is imperfect, scorched with age.
The owner steps to her luminescent cone cage.
She ignites, first notes licking timidly at the listeners like young flamesā¦
She lashes outwards with crescendoing waves of music
She hastens, notes tumbling with a blazing ferocity dragging the audience behind her.
Her owner is but an ember twisting in the riotous wind.
She hurls the music at the watchers, demanding repentance and
She incinerates their sins with her scorching song.
She sears the watchers reveling in their helpless anguish.
They suffer, hearts stumbling to keep up with the relentless tempo.
They are the vessels, not she.
She is the creator of endless boundless rhythm.
They are the insignificant, not she.
She is the inferno which destroys all.
They are the kindling, not she.
As they burn to her devastating tune.
