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Tremolo
The mark of a triumphal concert printed
On a glossy long-playing record sleeve.
The concertmaster's smiling face hinted
The acclaim she was entitled to receive.
She liked her drawing with her lock of hair
Falling on the strings of her violin
Like the violinist of the disk where
She held her instrument under her chin.
As always, her last stroke of a pen fell
With the last crackling of the old vinyl.
One day, she would be applauded as well
Louder than the winners of a final.
Her hope endured until the dazzling daydreams
Shattered into pallid scars of moonbeams.
Copyright ©
A. Ormulyce
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