The black auditorium

is where I find comfort.



Deadest silence from the world at large.



I find the darkest corner I can,

far away from the constant noise;

I sigh as a single chord cleanses

my body and soul.



How strange it is,

that the place where the spotlight

finds me

and turns me from an adolescent into

an exhibit,

a piece of art,

is also the only place where I see myself,

instead of the audience.



The stage where my notes breathe

and my words take flight into empty air

is desolate now,

save me.



I sit cross legged,

on the cold tile,

as music that only I can hear,

rushes to fill the vortex.



A black sonata,

bringing with the chord change

words to fill a black book with black ink.



The solitude gives rise to beauty,

when ghosts of my creation

begin to bow the phantom violins

and caress the piano keys,

as letter by letter

I bleed into paper.



I conduct the black orchestra

with scratches from my pen,

like God blowing into a hand of dust,

creating his child,

made in my own image;

In the climax,

I fall upon my knees

with tears of

exaltation

running out of closed eyes,

and I scream.



I am the prophet!

God of creation,

messiah of the black auditorium,

but I fall.



The ghosts leave,

I am empty,

alone,

wretched again.



But there is always peace

in the eternal vortex.