The Violinist (Melody, A Girl Named Melody)Mature

Yes, I know I may have an unhealthy attachment to violins in poetry. Oops.

A furrow of the brow,

Slight tension in the shoulders,

And then she drags the bow

Across the strings and begins, 

And it melts from her form,

Her eyes sliding shut,

Mouth closed, a soft

Breathy sigh escaping

Briefly before she takes control

Of the tune again, twists it

As it unwillingly bends,

Forming it into the music 

Notes printed neatly on the

Paper, inked in perfect rows.

She deals with this even as 

The melody struggles to be

Free again, to taste that wonderful 

Sweet taste of not knowing what 

Note comes next, the entire thing

Completely and utterly unplanned.

But then she decides, fuck it,

And yanks the bow sharply across

The strings, a shrill sound exploding

Before her foot taps a sudden rhythm,

And she flips the page of her sheet 

Music and begins to play, the tune

Different, this time, more... haunting.

And she listens to her heart and 

Her violin and her scrawled music.

And then she truly plays, and 

Her heart lifts and takes flight

And the melody flexes willingly,

The violin humming with happiness.

And this time she allows her eyes 

To close, and this time,

She is free. 

The End

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