The Violinist

A streak of color
that becomes a whirl;
a blackened speck of man, of wood-
Two instruments working toward the same goal.

He puts his heart and soul in it-
One in the same,
It dies, he dies inside,
His only lover and friend.

It comforts his loneliness-
eases his pain,
Transporting him from reality
And into a dream.

It prances, it frolics
Over the strings,
a somber sound
radiates, sings.

She is just like him,
But he, not like her,
They both want the same thing,
But cannot, with the other.