The Violinist

tunes Her Instrument.

Twang, says it.

Twang.

The Violinist begins

to Play,

Weaving a Symphony,

an Aria,

on a whim;

upon silken strings.

A string twangs,

Independently.

Twang,

says it.

Twang.

Her Instrument

broken,

the Violinist weaves

An elegy for her

long-lost

Compatriot,

A burial shroud.

The strings twang'd

Nevermore.

The Violinist,

without an Instrument,

sets out,

to create another

Tool of the Arts.

What is a Violinist,

whithout Her

Violin;

the better to create

an Aria?

The Patron of the

Arts,

She weaves Her

Sonatas,

doomed to be

brushed

aside.

Russ, I love your poems so much.  <3

Erm...  no critiqu, except that I think that you spelled "Independantly" wrong, I think.  o-O  Hmph.  <3 

OMG I FAIL.

DX

I think this is a lovely poem, I love the comparison of a spider to a violinist, it's beautiful c:

Though I think 'twang' sort of detracts from the fluidness of it, it doesn't suit the atmosphere at all xD; But then again it's so hard to think of the right sound for it I suppose.

The twanging parts I couldn't figure out how to add to the fluidity. :'c

But they signify part of the Spider's life, catching her prey with her instrument of choice. However, sometimes they try so hard that the instrument breaks, and everything she's worked for in life is lost. It could be taken as an actual human if you tried.