The Organist

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The organist prepares himself and the first note rings

and echoes around the chapel; clings

to the air like peeling bark on a witch's tree.

His shaking hands torment each key

and the pipes, in agony, cry out each harmonic.

The audience in the empty pews is demonic.

The ivory keys are anguish beneath his fingers;

every sacrilegious chord lingers.

 

With every unhallowed note he plays

the dark bliss of the strain weighs

down upon his shoulders,

a thousand burning, jagged boulders.

The imperturbation of the chapel is broken

by the screeching of the spirits he has awoken.






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