Instrument

The music glides into my mouth
Seamless, perfect, like ice,
Warming, even, the top of my long neck
And giving it the hope it has lost in strife.

I can’t remember how it happened.
My mind is undone by the minor scale.
Unravelled and laid flat like music staves,
Stretching out as I become bound, though less frail.

That’s when I hear it.
My strings come alive, and I lose myself.
The sound of steel becomes beautiful as I realize it’s a note being played.

This icy sensation quickly becomes raw,
And quickly becomes warm.
This energy I feel, this awakening,
It’s all because of this musical score.

My broken pieces come together.
They are united and structured carefully with fret lines.
I am stable now; my instincts remember what music sounds like again.
With music, there are no confines.

I am constructed.
I am the instrument.
But, disappointed in the passionless hands that continue to play me.
I was created for the purpose of passion.
Without it, the music never survives.

I am the instrument.
And I am dying.