The Pianist

I hear an unfamiliar melody
throughout this parlor often,
the keys are distinctly piano.

I sit there for a moment and
merely listen,
twitching my whiskers,
pondering on lives lost in war
and the awful things
my soul may have done in my
absence.

I have been a mistress to this
innate sense of curiosity
for a long while.

The issue with heels is that
they often echo
under a step heavy in burden,
even when the
soles themselves feel as light
and innocent
as the air surrounding them.

I think to myself that it all seems
rather melodic,
the bass of my footfalls amidst
the symphony of
a life played in precision?
Perhaps it even
elicits a sense of deja vu.

Once you start a journey you
must finish it.
I reach the end of the hallway
by the time the
candles have melted down to
their wicks in flickered reprise,

I pull open the doors
their framed bones creaking in age,
I look into the Room of Dust;
piles of unpacked boxes blanketed
by pages of symphonies
strewn about in a hasty array
stare back at me.

Some hold notes I know like
the touch of my own skin,
others hold stories I will
never read and,
as always,
the dream halts while
time stands still,
words become lost to purpose,
music is deafened by dissonance,
the seat before the piano
is left empty.

– B.

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