Violin

The majority are meaningless strings
Played by the conspicuous conductors,
The ones whose music gives reason
To the violin’s existence otherwise
Futile, a forlorn piece of carved wood.
Conductors are few and far between
But the strings are plentiful, coming
In boxes by the dozen daily and weekly,
Before they inevitably gather dust and break,
Replaced by a lively new set with a similar
Standing sustain as the notes that went before.
One-by-one the conductors leave the room
Having learned of a finer instrument to be
Played in a different, more upstanding place
Where the quality of sound is not hindered
By the surrounding atmosphere of the patrons.
Complacent conductors take up the violin
And mistreat its once sincere soul,
Each conductor’s iris of the eye darker
With every dropping of the instrument,
Denting its body, scratching its being.
And then, there is nobody left to play,
And the violin is left to gather the same
Dust as the strings, the same dust it so
Detested when it was at the height of its
Popularity, played by only the critical
Conductors, the ones whose influence
Was everlasting when they manipulated
The mundane strings so easily found.
Finally, the strings are taken away too
For use on another active instrument,
Leaving the violin on its own to inhale the dust,
A mark of passing time and inaction,
A mark of the inconsequence it used to mock.