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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

The sound.

Submitted: March 20, 2018

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Submitted: March 20, 2018





The vibration makes the sound,

Of the bow being drawn across the chords.

A rise and then a low,

Sounds so sweet you might forget they are made by strings.


At times they can be angry,

Could you blame the hands that make the sound?

Or the structure that evokes the feeling in your soul?

Most times they are sad.


Without them, the voice remains unheard,

These strings upon our violins.

Our instruments of sound.

For Life is different without them.


We call them strings.

They play the notes on our souls,

Bringing us to a place,

A place that we have often never known.


Music is sound,

But it is also silence.

And who can bear the silence of the soul?

Yet silence is all some people know.


The strings play on

And they make their noise that moves our souls.

Still silence calls,

For it is silence, that soothes our savage souls.

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