A Silent Violin

A SILENT VIOLIN

I stand, a silent violin 

amidst the symphony of life's choices.

The wind, a maestro's baton, 

dances with a trillion leaves,

conducting a choir of rustling, 

a crescendo of ease.

The choices I must make hang in the air, 

plump grapes,

heavy 

with the juice of consequence 

and desire.

The sky seems thick 

with doubt and music, 

a silent symphony,

a cacophony of colors, 

a tapestry of scents.

Either a river of whispers

painted in hues of regret,

singing in a minor key

of might-have-beens–

or

a shiver of unspoken lament,

the coolness of the blues

as well as the mournful

buzz of berries

eaten too late.

But the taste of courage 

is a sharp, tart apple,

biting through 

the cobwebs of fear 

that cling to my throat.

I feel the vibrations of decision 

in my chest,

a bass drum 

echoing through the cavern 

behind my ribs.

The flavor of it, metallic and electric,

surges through me like a bolt of lightning.

Another choice made.

The sun, a golden lullaby, 

now kisses my skin,

while the wind, 

a fickle flutist, 

plays in the ends of my hair.

I am the bow,

the strings,

the frets,

the chamber,

and I am the tone.

I am the sculpture

my choices have carved, 

molded by the invisible hands of fate,

wrought with the color 

of every 

single

unspoken word.

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Shared with those lovers of synesthesia over at DVerse Poets Pub.

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©2025 Christopher Reilley 

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