www.whyville.net Aug 21, 2005 Weekly Issue

Whyville Poet

The Violin

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A ship softly slides into the grey,
Large and bright into the night
It whispers a word of disarray
Taunting the night to come and play.

Atop the ship a tall man sways,
Strong and dark, his eyes a spark
He coldly stares into the grey,
It's fatal when the night decides to play.

A mound of ice wandering astray
Ship unsuspecting, not detecting,
The ice strikes its unwary prey.
Now danger joins into the play.

The sea the man sadly surveys,
Forlornly nodding, quickly prodding
Open a case without delay.
Violin in hand, he begins to play.

Into the ship the water sprays,
Gushing, crushing, water rushing,
To the horrified passengers' dismay.
Now death joins into the play.

Against the strings the worn bow sways,
Boldly singing, piercing ringing,
Across the water and dismal display,
The musician valiantly dares to play.

Women and children must be saved,
Life rafts filling, water chilling,
Families parting; men must stay.
Still, the musician loudly plays.

The forlorn vessel, drifting astray,
Slowly descending, woodwork bending,
It slides halfway into the grey.
Holding his ground, the musician plays.

Sorrowful music fills the grey,
Memories keeping, distressed weeping,
The violin's sweet music sways.
The bow against the strings they play.

The water like a darkened tray,
Serving death and cutting breaths,
In the man's eyes fear portrays.
But still, the musician bravely plays.

The man goes under but he delays,
His certain death with one last breath,
As the Titanic drifts into the grey.
No longer does the violin play.


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