The Violinist
What’s haunting is beautiful -
it’s only the depth of violins
that invade the brain
strumming slowly,
painfully
like a saw tearing away a limb.
Saline water bubbles
at the corner of the lids
like a dam ready to burst
with its thicket of splinters
splashing open toes.
red rain runs vicariously, living
the torture of a violinist.
The rise in tempo —
a brimming cascade of limbo,
years counted as dead.
The sliding of the bow,
flicker of finger matches -
lightning quick.
What makes one sick
but the rhythm of waves
felt to the quick.
1/13/2020
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2020
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