The essence of a string that is plucked
Into minuscule waves of perfect harmony

The beauty of a muse played by musician
Four boughs and bows bonding in mesmerism

Gifted are the gift bearers of providence
Violins are the toys of maestros

And they play, bosoms bared through lacey gowns
Temples hoisted and fluttering to an entranced delirium.

They play as if there’s no tomorrow, like the high tide
Spraying past rocks, unknowing of the coming lull

Bonding is a strange admixture, of bodies
That make love and music with the same pluck, the same venom

Violin and woman, man and goddess, they pluck
The same strings; music is an elysian intonation,

A harvest of notes spiraling octaves, crashing
Through ceilings of heaven, bonding chemistries of our insensibilities

And violins make men a little insecure, even enslaving them.
Slave masters don’t own bodies or carry chain keys,

They make free men move inside dungeons of their own music centers
And let shatter their tympanic membranes

If only women became violins when making love.
Man would become stone deaf in a splatter of sentience.

And he would call it synesthesia. Sound of musical waves,
A tsunami radiating from his center of gravity.

Violins do have a license to kill……..A little kill
Of strings – unstringing the thread of immeasurable bliss.

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