...

F*****g around

.

.

A violinist draws a bow across discordant chords,

.

Scratching desperately before a tome of music and

.

Agonizing over his play.

.

.

.

He had tried everything; 

.

.

The opiate pipe beside a bed of blankets,

.

Shattered glass from emptied brandy, cheap whiskey

.

And luxury scotch - 

.

Trailing crimson upon the floor, for his footsteps had made to mark.

.

.

He had altered style and played chameleon.

.

He had gave attempt at dancing swans.

.

He had practiced in the equine trot,

.

The canine howl and feline stalk.

.

.

He could fiddle away the cervidae -

.

transforming stag in transposition

.

From charge into march of faun.

.

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He knew the sonata of the vermin caught;

.

He knew the orchestra of the owl,

.

He knew the symphony for the archangel

.

And could sound saint against the devil.

.

.

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Still so t'was tragedy struck, 

.

.

As beside himself, he couldn't play -

.

No music from the horsehair frayed,

.

No echo from the wood.

.

.

It was all he was able, to stay awake

.

Watching as the skies bled gray -

.

All he could, was to pray as he stood

.

And fiddle his way to the grave.

.

.

.

Author's Note

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rxl5KsPjs