Strings to Music

It lies there all alone
Idle and isolated in its case
smooth and sleek its wooden body lay
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting to be played
A heart of pure music
A soul of wood and bone
Every note,
Every chord,
Form its voice
Humming away
Its mutters to itself,
In that odd sort of way,
Loosening its strings,
Until his master comes to play,
Manipulating the string,
A master of the way,
And then it is put back in its case,
Yet to wait another day.