The Violin Player

The violin echoes through her weary mind
as the graying clouds gather and pass the ticking time.
Her long black hair falling to her slim, scarred waist;
the trees listen to the music she plays every day.

Her raw voice singing the words of haunting whispered winds,
her black dress falls lightly as trees hush in the din.
With scars marring her body, and a knife held tight,
she softly coaxes out the notes of a darkened lullaby.

And the ground seems weary of her faerie music's glow,
for the magick is being called, the magick in her knows.
Her broken heart, it dances, on heavy, dragging feet;
she is as broken as her voice when the last note retreats.

As her bow leaves the strings, the world shudders in her eyes,
she finds her song now written, carved through her demise.
Her pale skin seems to glow again, before fading into black;
the only acknowledgement her death gets is that the music won't last.

So the aching melody is weaved into the gray tombstone,
and the words are whispered about their new home.
Her last thoughts were a poem's soft, dying rhymes;
her heart's last beats: a song's closing lines.