His Bow

When he picked up his bow,
Yes, he could do things.
No one I ever knew,
Was such a master of my dreams.

Up against his neck,
Close to his heart,
Drawing back and forth,
When silence would start,

Into the place
I keep to hide.
A wellspring of passion,
My quiet pride.

So well he knew,
As he played with the strings,
Plinking and playfully,
Protruding his means,

I would succumb,
To his song, as I swooned,
Each once upon time.
Our passionate doom.

Raine Les 10/21/2009

Just lovely...

Very nice piece here Sharris, makes me wonder if we are all just instruments waitin to be played.

perhaps, stroked, a part of composition that is never understood.