Author: mothersuperiorjumpedthegun PM
Again, not really a fitting title. But I don't title any of my poems when I write them, so it's hard to think of titles. I suppose I could always call it Eleanor Roosevelt.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 203 - Published: 12-02-07 - id: 2445763
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I walk to the piano quietly.
The seat is inviting and I sit, lost in thought.
The keys call to me as I place my hands on the ivory,
And my fingers begin to dance.
A soft, melodic sound fills the room.
A light smile plays across my face as I remember...
The melody, so sweet and teasing, as an old friend I can't quite place.
But then the smile fades
As I remember what I worked so hard to forget.
Memories float to the surface, haunting me.
Thoughts of forgotten days, suffering pushed to the back of my mind.
Lost in the past, yet my fingers continue.
The music drops darker, lower, chilling me to the bone.
And yet I don't stop. I can't stop.
Darker. Harder. Louder.
I pound the keys like murder.
The magical dance, my fingers dance.
The tears flow down as the music plays.
Blood drips from my fingers as they suffer in silence
And continue to dance,
A frantic dance, a dance to save my soul.
Keep playing, keep playing,
Whittling my fingers down to the bone
To help forget the past,
To focus on the sounds...
But what happens when the music stops?