Her fingers glided in ghostlike movements
Over the keys of the piano.
Each digit produces a sound that
Unites and blends into a rush of
Unity--lucidity.
Her sweat flecks her face
And her fingers ache,
Because each note siphons
A piece of her soul into her sonata.
It pours from her every pore
Like the fresh paint trickling through thin, tattered tapestries.
She glides.
She crescendos.
She floats on opium and passion.
The piano is her pimp
And she enslaves herself to the melody--
To the notes.
Her hands are plucking melodious flowers
Off the graves
Of Beethoven, Mozart, Apollo.
And how sweet the flowers must be
For her to dip them
Into her mouth
And savor the fragrance
The touch
The silk
The sweetness.
The flowers become her
It swims through her pumping blood
And sows itself into her dreams.
The seeds sprout on elusive landscapes
On the soils of her Fiddler's Green.
And when she hits the last notes
Like the flames that must be extinguished
Pay the girl a dollar
For her songs she dared to share.
