i have never gotten used
to the beam
of a spotlight;
hot wax
drips
down the back of my neck
as i ready
the bow
of my violin.
the ouroboros
of time
watches me
as the first
frigid
shrill note
seeps from the strings.
it feels
rather lonely
beneath the hot, fluorescent laser
of a spotlight.
my fingers begin to dance
more easily
across the frets;
my pace picks up
as the sounds
seem to intertwine
and settle
into place.
i remember this melody
and i am sure that i have never heard it once
in my life.
the crowd is screaming.
i pretend that it is only
bloodcurdling
out of sheer joy and thrill.
i get the feeling that
i should be used to this.
i look down at the violin,
the wax sticking to my skin
like gum on a hot
summer sidewalk
i am a telephone pole
during a thunderstorm
conducting charges
watching my fingers
curdled blood carved beneath their nails
shakily let go of my ribcage,
skin torn open to make way for the music
tendons laced across bone
a twisted harp
i feel nothing.
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the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
