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The bow takes its strikes against the gentle walnut
Going back and forth, miniscule marks being left behind.
Each note being hit at a perfect pitch, the song plays
Silky smooth into parched and keen ears.
The tempo is soft and gentle as it paves through
The skinny strings to release the music they
Hold inside.The sounds that float out of their
Pores is sticky in texture but full of relief
In ones ear, or say, soul.
The pain of the strings floods the roads of the pain
Being suffered by the violin.
Street-cleaners, 4-by4’s and 18 wheelers come
Pushing stray worries out of the way.
Replaced with a tearing; a simple shear tearing.
Peeking through the rugged texture of the core.
You stumble slightly at the feel of the sting,
Yet overtop you tower against the tremor in your mind.
The bow sways back from its landing strip,
Anxious for another swipe of the strings to sharpen
But no; the strings tremblings have ceased.
Only pure regret rings in their pores.