There were violins in piano halls, each instrument an artist of its' own kind. For
they all build walls of sound: anecdotes that performed on painted stages where
white gloves and plastic buttons begged us to sing along. And we all listened and
danced on mahogany streets under starlight, guided by howling winds and street-lights as
rioters against silence while our hands clapped and pumped precious symphonies into
our swelled heads. The echoes of the melodies followed us home; the music notes, like
shadows, watched our picket lines meander towards picket fences before they left us alone.
It was never so quiet when we returned to the places we loved while still tapping our
feet to the ringing in our ears. And the music dies but the beats are
trapped inside as we sit in our classrooms, cubicles, on the edges of our
beds, waiting for the return of sounds and hope and purpose, waiting for a song to
wake up to beyond our clock radios and the weeping nightingales. Because there was
never so fulfilling a night as when our lonely shoulders were embraced by rhythms known to
us beyond beating hearts and stereo speakers; the scream of the violin's strings, the
dreamers, and the howling wolf at the piano bench were maybe all we ever needed.