The shred, the base – fewer years lived naked than beastly behaved
 
Dressed-to-impress, an upstanding entrance and, then, the blinkering exit signs yet again, all of it twisted blissfully amidst
 
The contagious heart of an adolescent mild-child, which races to chase her lullaby-enhanced whisperings fair longingly
 
Fair joyously, at the soft shuddering at the interrupting of the indescribably playful in-between
 
An international accolade, an orchestration of theatrically whipsmart happenstance
 
Carried sweetly by carefree reasoning, and an audience of well-attired upper-class people shall clap to break the wraparound glass ceiling
 
Of bewildered, overbearing appreciation
Of poised purpose, guided by colourful bouts of undeniable expectancy
 
The chosen one – that Ricci-trained, an inordinately humble prodigy with a leatherbound case of grippingly borrowed intimacy
Acting as though it truly were her savoured favourite, fondest best-friend
 
Enthusiastically, time again, too young to decipher what’s good, what floats precipitously above all of their conscientiously correct crania strains, albeit about to drop tantalisingly atop of
 
Their sentimental everything / The scattergraph at the tip of the exactitude landing
Soon as they fail at stereotypically understanding
These pieces of natural-born affinity
 
Reaching, reacting
 
But… for… one – the same girl who shall sightly nurture the laid bare dustings of her musical surroundings
The highlighted soundings of her shrinking social circumference, whilst all awhile – smile intact – losing an entire lifestyle
 
Never really mattered but for
1690’s Strad.
 
The sentimental beat-back, satisfaction quarantined, yet these mixed-up feelings of hers are, all of them, quite riotously (rightfully) real, made up from make-believe
 
At being experimentally freeing aside inexorably fashion-forward at expressing themselves to witness and suggestively see…
 
One way out – to faraway fetch the supernatural, nail-paced, finger-led, -fed appeal
Midst caressed degrees of digression met with unbeknownst masterclass approval – when these dancing strands of bleeding ammunition begin at tightening themselves, their harmonious grippings against
 
The growth spurts of human immunity – this concentratedly plagiarised handheld weaponry of sweet mahogany persuasion
 
All of it sworn, worn, to be hers
And the wandering, worshipping permittances speak suddenly so vividly
Courtesy of only ever itself
 
This burgeoning need for a kid of barely teenage years to secretively, incandescently misbehave when, admittedly still, permitted to be singularly kissed, soulfully
 
By the tail-end force, the fantastical face of four interloping sing-it strings, as best that the rules shan’t ever get to apply themselves – this is creativity miraculously meshed back together – to get her – and at unequivocally spiritual speed
Breakneck, no two ways
 
But for London from Korea – deemed to be, there’s a whole other family of transgenerational people living in there, way beneath, somewhere… someplace extra-special indeed
 
Especially insistent/persistent enough to make up the monetary difference, downright diffidence in thee
Sneaking, speaking…
To the shape-shifting surface of the rosin-dropped violin
 
Which carries caressed with it
A full-body of blood and its own beautifully high-wired belonging
To the other person in the congratulatory place of seated – feted – waiting
 
Never missing a test
With every next time that this wild-child tends to touch the tastes – both for Stradivari and Kym
Welcome home to bruce, willow and a dollop of interloping furnishings our dearest Min
 
Wherein they solemnly told her, swore at her…
That her soul would be waiting
Winking
Even if it went missing, she kept coming back with wrought-iron hindsight
Fighting, flighty as an ornamental creature put against the edges of the divided flame – kissing its screaming features til universally accepted, sanctimoniously estranged – outraged – yet, to remain thankfully rearranged
Brought back to a life twice as friendly as never before it holds its forlorn tongue and fails to speak, whilst she manoeuvres on upwards, homeward-bound and carries with it a brand new best friend’s priceless instrument
Understanding and torn terrifically towards – this playful thing called staged forgiveness
A stapled maple of hourglass, heart-shaped brilliance, which continues to sing it
Beneath the winding winds – wings –  of her pulsating resilience
One… more… time
And her chosen mind turns itself uncontrollably towards
The prodigal soils of her Korean ancestors
 
Still reckoning itself into the same shape… as the space left behind by her violin’s absence