A Violin

It was wounded,

chipped and scorched. 

It was tall and curved,

Petite but not lean. 

It was dirty, 

Dust and grime consuming it’s form. 

The texture was grim,

Filthy to the touch.

Covered behind a guise, 

Underlying chestnut wood.

Despite the imperfection,

Underneath all the unfortunate, 

There laid within my hands was a song waiting to be played.

There laid a story waiting to be told,

An adventure to experience once more,

A memory to be heard. 

It was wounded,

But could be healed.

It was dirty,

But could be cleaned. 

It was covered,

But could be revealed.

There laid within my hands was a beautiful tool,

A violin waiting to be played.