An uncared for fiddle
Left out of the case--
Body too far worn--
A true disgrace.

Strings fraying,
Though a peg still turns--
No music to be made--
The one thing for which a fiddle yearns.

The bridge is missing,
Lower bout impaired--
Blame not the instrument--
For love was not shared.

Tailpiece hanging,
Tuners carry no tune--
Lying broken in a corner--
Like myself every afternoon.
© caspershay