The brilliant composer's gone insane.
The silent room fills with rage.
Each part works synergistically,
To create the sound from which I flee.

The sound is moving louder now,
Coming forward without a doubt.
I'm running but there's no escape.
The door is closing and I'm too late.

Fear infects my being wholly,
Setting in my bones and holding.
The shadows are reaching to my soul,
And soon my sanity is what they stole.

Not yet, I think. I'm still here.
And with the doubt whispering in my ear,
I search until I find I'm right:
The composer himself is only my Fright.