A violin drips its music down

Summer garden of moth wings. Dusk gown of
violet, blue-
specks of black.
Night encroaches, circle moon, breathe the
moon-dust
in a mouthing.
A violinist in a frock coat, maestro of the dark.
He plays the music,
sister of
a song- dripping down a rabbit warren,
kneeling down
among the grass, dew dripping like a candle’s wax.

And the maestro, well past aging, and his fingers
grown milky,
yet with the bow bounces the flesh of the strings.
Their notes
plumb into the hollows, stoop over and kiss the
hole-mouth
of shadows. Dare into the root of the soil of
a flower petal.
He walks in the music, but the night isn’t noticing,
thinks he’s
asleep in longevity. Lying down. And the voice of
nothing, tin white
(a bone white light, silence in a song).

Copyright © 03/01/17 lance sheridan®

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2 comments on “A violin drips its music down

  1. Barbara says:

    This poem brings the bow to life through the writer’s voice; thus, leaving the reader amazed at the quality of the images exploding etched paintings appeared in this reader’s mind. On a scale 1 to 10 & 10 being the highest I’d rate this a 10!

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