Goddess of the Strings

by lovealwayscath

It is I, not you, who make the strings
of your instrument sound.
You think it is your arm?
Think again, my dear.

When you were a babe I held you
You were falling. I caught you.
I made your arm move gracefully
And made you play beautifully.

You were dropping it but
I held your hand while you gripped it
Your eyes were closed and afraid
I stood you up and whispered to peek.

And now you have forgotten me
Hate me even but I haven’t cursed you.
It is still by my prayers
That your strings are not cut.