A small room, a cube,
nothing more than a ten by ten,
with only artificial illumination to brighten the area;
shoved into the corner of an abandoned alley,
slick from waxed, wood floors
where there is no shuffling of papers or people.
The place that takes up my empty periods
in a school of blank-minded and boisterous;
the room sits quietly, patiently for its next inhabitant,
a thick wooden door to seal any slivers of sound
that escape its clutches.
A hospital for the musically impaired
to improve upon their breath-holding
and key slapping.
It is where hard work meets triumph,
an area attributed to those who desperately
ache for the silence of this small space
where your murmurs echo and eighth notes
dance through the dry air trapped within.
A piano lazily leans against the farthest wall
like a child fearing the reputed demon
who will barge through the doorway and bang
it’s filthy hands across the black and
white spread out between slender arms.
Pale blue paint peeling off the plaster
walls that fortify the peace between.
Blood pumped through my buzzing head
and the juices of musicality flowed to my fingertips;
the stress of school kept at bay
for a single moment of solitude and tranquility,
a place where my eyes closed and my ears opened
to the current of melody that swept my tired soul
into a far off galaxy, overcome by a stampede of serenity
where my mind and spirit unified in harmony
and happiness radiated from my heart.
It was where I heard the sounds of music’s meaning speak.