The Violist

 

the violist

I send my testimonies to smithereens
fill myself with unsettled concrete, sloppy but escapable
try to love somebody inside it, accept the outcome will be a petroglyph tailored to our century

Watching strangers take routes that we’ve adopted, even the oblivious cause fire in my muscles, we have the same disease you know
your’s is only a shade greener, yet benign all the same

the encore i’ve been avoiding,
your new instrument is my being

Reviews

[miSS LEaf]

to be shamelessly honest i have no idea what this poem is about. . . still, i can say i like it, there is something unknown, mysterious, haunting and perflexly beautiful in this unique arrangement of words, aside my lack of understanding. . . and the title scores many points for me; i love music and its instruments ~L

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

a curious rendition~for me it speaks of the careless disinterest of human beings of what they may deem ordinary through lack of creative imagination~but what is in fact absolutely magikal in its simplicity of being and sound~open to the ones who still see the word in continous notes strung through the colors of the air and the blush heartbeat of world~ I love the enigmatic quality~ the open door to interpretation~