With each placement of fingers
And each stroke of the bow
Notes dance about
Flittering,
Swirling around.
In a song of high 3rds,
Low 1s and 2s,
And 4th fingers,
You only know
Tremolo and Staccato.
And with any whole note,
Vibrato.
And you play.
The song you know,
You play.
But slurs are still there,
Keeping you sane
In the fury
Of crescendo's
And notes screaming,
All playing Forte.
The slurs are there.
Allowing you to breathe.
Even,
As you drown
With each strike
Of the bow,
A deadly weapon
To use.
Slurs are there.
You,
My dear,
Allow that.
Take a look,
From high 3rd
To open A.
A slur,
That describes you.
Us.
Technical Aunt
And Technical Niece,
A simple phrase,
That only we
Know what it really,
Truly means.
All the symbolism,
Hidden meanings,
Love
And slurs.
My dear,
You allow me
To play
Slurs.
YOU ARE READING
From The Pen To The Soul
PoetrySometimes, writing isn't an option; it's a necessity. This is my story. Everything I write, is a part of me. But it's up to you, to find your story; connect to yourself through my writing. (Most of these are sent to my big sister)
