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The Violinist
Author: Anthony Wright

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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 heís 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 heís 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 itís failure he fears

His strength gone, hair gray, body weak, decrepit and old
He plays on throughout summerís heat and winterís cold
He hasnít 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
Donít think about the blood dripping off his fingertips
Donít 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.

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