ferlinfie

The world seemed to stop
As his fingers slid over
The slick shiny keys.

The music poured forth
Out of the piano and
Into all our souls.

He finished the piece
And ten thousand hands clapped their
Appreciation.

©2006-2007 ~sundogkm





He walks into the spotlight, he sits down.
He takes a deep breath, and calms himself.
He places his hands slowly on the keys,
and he stares at the blank score in front of him.
The stage his quite, he prepares his requiem, his melody, his finale.

He pushes down onto the key, initiating the birth of his song.
He gradually switches the pedals and lifts his fingers,
as if he was learning to walk.
A slow rhythm for such a mundane childhood,
he strokes the key as if the time he has was forever.
The pace as if the clock would never strike tomorrow.

The melody grows old, he wants to change the pace;
he steps up the tempo.
Throwing in incomprehensible chords,
he confuses himself with the beauty of his uncertainty.
The simplicity of his childish rhythm fades,
and he realizes the uselessness of himself.
He fails to comprehend what he plays.
He doesn’t know where to direct his hands,
as if every key might be a mistake.

He slows down to comprehend his steps he matures,
but his pace quickens again.
As if he is going nowhere, but he still searches for an exit.
He stroke the keys chaotically and
melancholic tones strobe through the stage.
The speed incomprehensible it makes a hymn he fails to hear.

The tone grows old, and he tries to replay the notes he has play.
He can hardly recall the chaotic past of his composition.
He sought out the foolishness in his rhythm. He realizes them.
He played the cheerful moments with a slow rhythm,
as he never wants to escape that feeling.
He played his fears quickly with an uneven pace,
only trying to run away.

The song grows weary, and he finds closures,
as he ends his piece in peace.
He played his life,
and is pleased as if he told his story to the world.
He takes a deep breath.
He covers his keys. A relinquished feeling,
as if he is no longer attached to his pain.
He clasps his hands and closes his eyes.
He waits for the curtains to fall,
the lights to fade, the echoing applause, and the tears to flow.

He looks away from the wall, and out to the stage.
The curtains were opened, and lights still shine.
He looked outward and not one person in the room.
He played his whole life, but no one was there.

©2006-2007 ~NINDOX