|Digital Poetry Slam
||[Mar. 3rd, 2005|06:49 am]
Your strings have been stretched and warped
by the dry winter air.
begs for tuning,
and the keys catch,
sticking in the board.
The fingers play Shostakovich
but your voice moans
a sorrowful wail.
The feet press the pedals
but the sound drowns
in puffy echoes.
Do you yearn for more healthy
where your keys press swiftly
and your song rings clear?
So old and worn you are.
What a sad state
to be neglected
by the university beaucracy.
The grand piano bites your hands with jagged teeth.
You don’t let up. I watch you play Beethoven
As if there’s essence in your notes and life is brief.
The curtains rise. You leave the window opened.
You bleed in front of me. I dare not look away.
At once, a mortal and a god, you’re omnipotent.
The harmony takes shape; what a superb array
Of colors, forms and barely whispered texts!
Your fingers tame the frantic keys and they
Rush to respond to you, one faster than the next,
Preceding you before the page is turned
The melody is gentle; simple, yet complex.
Your eyes fixated, tranquil, calm and stern.
They take no note of me. They are sublime.
You're elsewhere, -- in another place, another time.
The last few notes and suddenly, your hands fall dead
Into some endless void. No echo. Only silence.
Then, wearily you rise, with half-closed eyelids,
As though a dreamer rising out of bed.