The Waltz Across my Violin Strings

There is nothing
Quite like the feeling
Of strings beneath my fingertips,
Singing, screaming, simmering.
My fingers walk the wires
In a balancing act
Of speed and placement.
One wrong step
Could bring to an end
The beauty and grace
That reaches my ears.
Sliding across these strings
With the thick richness of honey,
Gliding as gracefully
As a figure skater on ice.
This is the stage
My fingers dance across,
A more-than-life-size puppet
To them, who play on its surface,
Dancing, climbing,
Across the face of their world,
So large to them,
To tiny to me.
But the sound stirs ripples
That I feel from my heartbeat,
To the pits of my stomach,
Through my fingers, eyes, and feet.
Every skip and jump,
Every turn and leap,
And slow, wavering nervousness
Beneath such a sweet sound,
Produced from the waltz
Across my violin strings.


Dance of the Sirens

The sirens sing to me
From the distance.
The varying melodies
And the changing tempos
Fill my stomach with a sort of dread
That excites me more than scares me.
All around me they scream
Like owls in the night.
The flashing lights are almost visible,
Playing on the walls,
And all down the streets,
Reflected in windows that distort them
And make them run together.
I am watching a performance.
A red spotlight,
Then a blue.
The sweet whine is growing louder
And faster.
And then, breathtakingly,
The dancer glides across the stage
Followed by another
And another.
I wish to follow them,
To know where it is they go to,
But I would never want to ruin
Such a beautiful performance
By knowing the horror that has sparked it
And destroying the wonder
It has sparked in me.