Violin

Annika Gangopadhyay

The poet releases his words, and

 hesitant crescendos form phrases 

from eroded heartstrings. 

whispers of evening colors recoil

in anticipation, until 

the ballad engulfs the darkness with a cry–

His voice rises

with broken wings, 

searching for the dim light

stuck on a broken hourglass

but he only sees the centuries 

surging as piercing melodies

rebound against unrelenting, 

translucent promises

of wealth, of luxury.

His voice is lost in the waning crescent:

a beacon of starving nights, 

a sign of broken fantasies.

To satiate an ear, 

 he must fill his own heart with an empty desire 

that burns the insides of his body

 before he may bargain what is left of the ashes.