16 May 2012
She spins beauty from her sorrow, Works her fingers to the bone, Pressing down on ebony And ivory, just so.
Sonatas for the midnight sun So brooding, restless, dark. Pouring out her very soul, Oozing from her scars.
Perhaps a rondo for Elise? Accidentals slice her wrists. Mordents help the pain release And trills the cuts do kiss.
Liszt pulls her to the edge Stretching palms to farthest span, Distracted from her messed-up world By her screaming, dancing hands.
She sits like this from dawn to dusk And dusk to dawn once more Until the pain caused by the keys Has numbed her heart once more.
Little Pianist • Opuss № I