Simon's Cello

Stop, listen, the way his cello grievously sings,
How he drags the bow with fingers ever so slim;
Cutting and biting, a cacophony it brings,
Jaggedly and piercing; his expressions are grim.

The cellist glares, with distaste and annoyance,
Bitter are his eyes, as of his words and his song,
Discordantly, an elegy of dissonance,
Straying unto madness, has it done him no wrong?

Watch, see, this is his manner of cello playing,
He furrows his brows, saws the cello in ire,
Listen with more fervency; what is it saying?
Can you both see and feel that avid desire?

His teeth clenches, pulls an ardent arpeggio,
Across the strings effortlessly with such vigour;
Beautifully fierce; never waning his brio,
Now breathe, deeply, witness his musical rigour.

Lightly down the fingerboard, his digits do dance-
Across the maple, like figure skating on ice,
Beckoning you, how it manages to entrance,
Like drawing moth to the flame, a beguiling vice.

Lo, behold, the scowl so unfeeling yet so pure,
What lurks within, is deeper than insanity;
It is a place you can never dream to venture,
To attain it; do you have the audacity?

As the song softens, it reaches the interlude,
Of this lament that renders his harrowing soul;
The cellist sighs, a woeful air did he exude,
Halts abruptly, he stands up and drops the cello.

The sound of silence never seemed lovelier...