THE MAD VIOLINIST
Word is out
Amongst the embellished he is spoken of
Known for his sombre tone
Tales of the broken they evoke
Of the madness which often consumes
Soon, he is to commence his stance on stage
Yet Absinthe be his thirst
Numbing the nerves which reach his slender fingers
Behind the curtains
He glances before his aristocratic crowd
To know the souls he feeds with his poignant touch
To know there spirited eyes
For what they seek here is not of their social order
Strung tight are his strings
To perfect note
Tender shall be their cry
His steps echo upon the grand stage
He reaches centre
Seated upon a red satin chair
Only seated he plays
Silent the auditorium becomes
All eyes feast upon the manner of his fragile posture
He adheres to his inner breath
A moment of silence
A cord is struck which exhales a violent murmur
Startling the audience’s attention
The strings sway rapidly
Tolling to long rhythmic screams
Frantic in composure
Heartfelt his sound
Looking down with closed eyes
He plays of what he holds within
No composed notes are held in front
For what be told
Shall be done without words
Sweat glides along his forehead
Dripping down his brow
Devout is his commitment
To unfold himself
Internally naked
Brave and honest does he play
He holds the neck with firm hands
Strangling the inner demons of past torments
Salvation found in every venomous strike of his bow
Frantic display
His body reverberating to the waves of compulsive movement
To be guided by its vibrations
A sacred trance
Fluent is his rhythm
Daring to be bold
Revealing his personal narrative of loss
To bridge the gap that holds truth away