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The Violinist The violinist plays in his studio hall, Resonant melodies bouncing off every wall Standing amidst a flurry of rich vibrant tones, His fingers dance steadily, wearing to the bones Enraptured in the works of composers long since dead, He dreads every passing note every page he’s read Though he has played for days without a single rest, He cannot eat, cannot sleep until he is the best He may play until his death, or through eternity Pensively playing chorales for some serenity Or playing dramatic dynamics in frantic moods But playing so critical, his music never soothes Each passing second, each passing minute of the hour Brings ruin to his strength, diminishing his power But instrument never faltering, he plays on Sounds escaping from his bow, meticulous and strong His fingers raw, his neck stiff, his back worn, his feet sore His face stern, posture straight he’s preparing for war He shall champion all masters who stand in his way For he will be better than anyone else someday Music sustains him throughout the months, years come and go But his desire never forsakes him, it seems to grow Decades dwindle by and he stands straight despite the years He never stops practicing for it’s failure he fears His strength gone, hair gray, body weak, decrepit and old He plays on throughout summer’s heat and winter’s cold He hasn’t been outside his hall in long gone ages His world consists of little notes drawn across pages He is now but a skeleton of his former self Yet keeps playing the music that lines his endless shelf And if you happen to pass his old, worn studio Listen to the perfect music bouncing off his bow Never mind the bones that pierce his blue, unhealthy skin Forget the bulging blister that runs along his chin Don’t think about the blood dripping off his fingertips Don’t look at the rotten teeth that line his slim, dead lips Do not be distracted by his bleary, bloodshot eyes Just hear the beautiful melodies before he dies For oblivious to him, his days are almost done And he will sadly wonder where all the time has gone When he does, he will realize he never took his chance He never tried to prove just how good his fingers dance Never beat a single master, never became best But now his days are done, fears are gone, and he can rest He spent his entire life perfecting his tone and style But never got to prove himself in all the while For he never believed he was good enough to win And he died playing his worn-out violin. Fine- |
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