I’m that fiddle in the corner,
Broken down and cob-webbed up.
Passed over for the shiny violin,
sleek, pure sound and powerful notes,
I’m dull in comparison, squeaking out what I can,
strings worn by age and disuse.
I was beautiful once, cherished, put away free
of finger-prints and dust.
The lid closed for longer each time,
I mourned the lack of sun, lost my voice to time.
I am a fiddle still,
but I’ll soon sink into grime.