Image by Ashley Newton

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.