4 | crescendo

the concert hall is big, black and blue with the cries 

of a voice behind a microphone and the accompaniment of music

preferably Fidelio from Beethoven

and who else stands front and center but me, 

gorgeous and sleek, grand and serene

the man who plays me as the woman sings

oh so talented. so very talented. the music we perform is beautiful 

and as the concert hall grows alive with applause

i think this is where i belong.

not so long after the fifth symphony i feel a heat

the floors alive just as the seats in front of me once were

alive, alive, alive with the fiery hot sensation 

of something i have never once experienced

it latches onto my legs and it hurts, by the great composers it hurts

i turn to the microphone, but she is gone. the singers, gone. 

the man who played me while people performed, gone. 

and i realize that they have left me

they have left me on the stage i loved so much

and locked the doors

i have no escape. 

i’m nervous. one last song, i cry, one last sonatina

but who’s going to hear me?

and as the burning sensation enters under my hood,

latching on to my strings and melting my hammers

sticking my keys and rendering me useless forevermore,

i remember i was the world’s greatest performer. 

i accept that this is where i belong.