The pianists’ fingers brush the keys, light and flexible as silken spring,
effervescent as the clear dew of morn, blithe as the flight of a sparrow.
Artfully she weaves each phrase, sweeping the ivories with effortless ease,
enchanting melodies floating on the gentle breeze of a sonata,
the graceful waltz of a serenade, the delicate allure of a nocturne.
Her musicality flawless,
Her desire fluent.
Exquisitely she holds within, a rapture that threatens to shatter,
an ecstasy that consumes in exquisite passion, emptying unto its end -
and she, - left bereft of song or measure or utterance,
Her rose petals scattered across the pianoforte,
Her heart an echoing requiem in stillness.