Anacruses

The fiddler wiped the shards of sweat from his brow,

And then took a rest,

While his brother tuned his instrument accordingly,

And the room readily died.

For a moment there was nothing,

But this silence grew too still,

And so came whisper and 

shuffling from the four corners of the room,

Until the old man drew his bow and pressed weathered maple to his collar.

Instinct led my foot to find it's feet upon the wood below,

But the blare was so unsound,

The strings and keys bled with odd notes and chords 

and yet more wholesome the lyrics turned.

As we drew to an abrupt crescendo

the floor kicked up rusty coughs and flawless drops of glass,

All hanging equally before some found their feet

and others fell and filled the gorge.

A few minutes passed before the floor relaxed and silence bound the house once more,

Permanence restored until tomorrow night,

Bailey reclaimed her spot in front of the gasping embers of the hearth,

And quickly fell asleep.

And so all that remained

was my two own, 

And an deep-eyed song I had spent my childhood singing,

Painted on the wall.