violin strings
taut to the touch
tremble, tremour and break

deepest springs
of holy smudge
turn grey, of form opaque

give us wings
a line to crutch
salve from exhausting ache

a balm from stings
from hurt too much
a limit to chafe we take

soul longs to sing
escape from hutch
to soar the skies as lake

reflecting King's
celestial drudge
the sun in morning's wake