…and there is no grand gesture of acknowledging the audience’s applause

as the violinist stands perfectly still, watching,

waiting,

for the small, unseen blazing wink

that tells her to slowly, without mercy, break some hearts.

It matters not at all, what the violinist wears, for the assassin’s bow

gently pierces the skin and boils the blood of the victim

and she slowly places the breathe

in play in which the body can bear no longer, the beauty contained within.

The long drawn out note, the gentle scream that drives me mad

with passion, the short picked string, reverberating in

short

breathless

motions

to come

to her and be plucked to death by a wooden love.

 

The assassin’s movements wild, gestured, heart surgery wielding

as the theatre’s lights slowly dim and focus the attention on the maniac

you have paid to assassinate you, remove you from this world and place you

deep in a box you have chosen

and in which I already reside.

 

The light dims further, the pace slow, beautiful, erotic, calculated,

the bow drawn back fully and taught, the back of the violin

groaning under the pressure that wells up as if the moment to let go

is here, pulsating, screaming your name in notes unheard

to the naked ear, except to you, except to you, and you ache

for

release.

The assassin had done her work, the movement finished and

flush faced and stripped of all but strings, her emotions in the kill

subsiding, fading,

dying,

as she bows her head and in your death throws you applaud like

a beast possessed, your being infused in torment;

you are spent but dead, alive but forgotten,

the bow leaves no mark on your scarred heart as the

assassin leaves exhausted, tied to a note that never came.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.