The Unknown Violinist

The crescent moon smiles
as skies darken and night settles
on broken old bones clinging
to the fictions of probability
wrapped in a brown bag.

I lay, a wanderer in pittance
cloaked with scarlet leaves
that soon will decay;
the never-ending cycle
like a wrought clock--of changed hands.

The last sip
down the hatch is unseasonable.
It makes no difference if its sweet or hot.
It's savored till unconsciousness wrestles
last thoughts and orchestrated silence
bends. The violin hears as I bow
to my opus….. 
(Do you like it?)

Nurtured through the night
in drunken slumber
force and focus kaleidoscope
to embellish the spellbound dream
where songs are played
by a real musician.

 

 
 (Inspiried from a poetry challenge with specific created lines, which have been slightly modified for this poem.)