ebony screeches and ivory twangs—
that staccato bird chatter of untuned piano keys
—slash through your classical memory
(chopin's exploitation of your ears never disturbed you before)
now drawn to harmony's discord, your wild fingers scribble melodies
that careen off the music staff toward the nether regions of your eardrums
the refrain of your rambling chaos crescendos, then wanes
as grief slices its final note—silence—through your jolted heart
and the echo (vibrato like your quivering hands) trembles, but does not die