The Violist

Music can touch and sometimes even pierce the heart.

His art was beauty.

In notes he played.

He fiddled, he arcoed,

'Till his bow had since frayed.

His melodies sweet,

Each note low and high.

A symphony just so,

It made the heart cry.

His melodies dark,

Such the median he played.

Yet with every crescendo,

The ballroom would sway.

His music was his lure,

To attract those with class.

He'd draw them all in

With each fingerboard clasp.

His playing form bright,

Soon decayed into slow.

The room then grew tired

By diminuendo.

Then each poor, sad soul,

Now lulled into sleep.

Would dream baroque dreams,

While over them he would creep.

His music was somber,

Before it came to a rest.

He took out the dagger

That lay 'gainst his chest.

The crimson it flew,

Such beauty, how beau.

As the sharp point came down,

Down in staccato.

Now all those who listened

To his song key in G,

Faced a sad, bloody end

To The Violist's melody.