A violin has lost its notes,
each string subsides
into a tuneless cavern
of lost promise,
humid limestone walls
absorb the weaker sound.
And the more it plays
the less its voice becomes.
For what once was vibrato
is now nothing more
than a veneered shell
with hand-worn strings.
It is only left to wonder
why it was discarded here,
and by whom;
it had known orchestral company
once upon a soloists dedication.
Now no one hears the strains
of a need to be held.
