Listening to the fiddler deep down,
a soliloquy of ashes in the twilight,
speaking in tongues of the damned,
dead languages of souls departed.
The fiddler had no fingers, just bone—
yellowed and polished smooth, clicking,
against the strings with every note,
paid in coins from the graves.
—into the fiddler’s upturned hat,
then dragged the bow across the strings,
with a breath that last too long,
singing, “Auld Lang Syne.”
Notes bent where they shouldn’t,
like a corpse refusing rigor mortis,
and yet, the crowd gathered,
drawn by something deeper than sound.
This is so cleverly detailed. It’s very interesting/captivating. I love it dude.
Thank you, Styxian.
Cleverly penned, Adagio. Incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.