The violinist who'd voyage on trains

’m writing a poem

swinging my head.

With thoughtful fingers

I’m evoking octaves

each button a key

like it’d be a melody

Strings on a notebook

Like it’d be a Piano.

I’m too proud to say it

as a man.

Let’s say, instead,

I am a willow, weeping

tears borrowed from rain

A sculpture of sadness and sorrow

as it is winter, and it won’t pour away.

Icicles. I’ll forever cry.

The easiest way I know

to feel alone

is to meet the crowd

As soon as I catch a glance

It’ll slip. I’m a child.

Excuse me, gentle lady

would you, please

with a stroke

end this tearflow?

No, I beg, don’t

leave me alone.

Take my little hand

Can’t you see I’m so tiny

and vulnerable?

I’ll be following you

If you want

just for a while,

maybe…

An orphan,

a memento

she’d leave me

I’d crumble

I’d hide

under the table

I’d sit

under the willow.

A violinist always plays

his melodies on this train

I always get in

I think he is an archangel

playing my apocalypse

I’d die happy

giving off to those notes

Am I to beg again?

Violinist, please

I want god to show

and take me back

Home.