The Violinist

Upon the weathered wall where

Names are scribed and scrawled

She stands and plays her song

And all we can do is watch

Attenuated to the tones, transcending

What was written on the stones

She moves like a ghost, plays like a siren

Soothes the tired soul e'ery

Time she draws her bow

'Cross the violin

The sky cries in muted grays

But she wears a hundred colors and

Shines on even the darkest days

And the smile on her face

Would soften even the hardest gaze

'Fore she even began to play

And then the sounds, oh the sounds

Seems even the clouds are moving with her now

Til the sun peeks down, just to find out

What's going on behind their shroud

Beauty abounds, in e'ery moment found

When your eyes and ears are open

She will come 'round

And upon the weathered wall where

Names are scribed and scrawled

She'll sing to you a lullaby

Heal for you the mourning sky

Bring the dead leaves back to life

She'll draw the wintry curtains aside

And you'll fall for her a thousand times

As upon the weathered wall you scribe

One more name, and await your time.