In the hollow of his grand piano, Silence sang,
Ecstatic in her soundless melody,
For as time passed, a maestro’s fascination with Music’s theory,
Eclipsed his desire to play,
He starved her of all things: his tender touch, his adoration, his affection—
And Music languished in a labyrinthine mind.
In oblivion came death; in death came Silence,
The grand piano an ornate casket—
With Music entombed within, Silence jubiliant without.
His fingers, once deft and sure, now stumble,
On ivory keys yellowed by disuse,
Notes that once flowed in Music’s exaltation,
Choke on thick cobwebs woven as a burial shroud.
Silence, the usurper, draws him to her breast,
The maestro’s sorrow smothered in her oppressive embrace,
Tragic is the murderer who mourns,
Regretful of what he wrought, still yet damned is he.
“She has forsaken me”,
“And I am left to wonder why my heart remains”.