A funeral concert hall
Where adults like crestfallen children mourn in silence
And Men’s melancholic mouths stay parched in mountainous grief
Where wretched women stem their wail and woe,
Watching the mahogany casket closed conclusively,
Succumbing, for a minute, to the dreary silence of wanted relief.

The pianist approaches . . .

The Timbre of his mourning soul
Matching the blue somberness of his hefty steps
As the creaking noises of the wooden floor
Wanes in the purple and graceful peace of his walk.

The steadfast shuffle of his feet perks the ears
Of the taciturn audience and
Their eyes like blooming chrysanthemums
Emerge from moist wads in their palms
Their droughted hearts awaiting quenching waves of emotion
Bubbling under the pressure of the mortal silence

On the midnight pedestal, sits the pianist
Like an unearthly dial
Casting a silhouette so calamitous
That the clock rests, the shadows listen, and the candles flicker

And there on the eighty-eighty keys of the Concert Grand
On the notes {C# - E - G#} of a midnight dance floor
He strikes with a unique chord
The beautiful Nocturne encapsulating the harmony
Of the darkest most dreary night

And like a spell it frees the oppression of the most painful silence
And the audience leans forward against their seats
Their ears lifting to the cathartic musical tone
And their eyes open like a dam
No longer blockading an irresistible flood of tears,
The hurt in their hearts rising to a crescendo.

The music echoes among the saintly arches of the hall . . .

A C#older pitch than the icy steps of wintery halls
And a tone deeper than the death knell of a church bell
An Expression weightier than mourning hands
And a resonance awakening the glooming shadows of a concert hall
A G#rave tone darker than Tchaikovsky’s string quartet
As he plays a piece — to amend the somber, painful silence

Nimble hands dancing on piano keys—
A product of a masterful virtuoso
Yet carrying more weight than the shoulders of Atlas
Lifting a world of sorrows on his curved palms
As his coordinated hands
Reflect desolation in the finest yet most beleaguered form
Alike drooping sunflowers in a post-apocalyptic world

Nimble hands dancing on piano keys—
Are like a wailing bow gliding across mourning souls
Just like in the heavy cellos of Schubert’s Serenade
A nightly love song yet so filled with rage
Igniting his suppressed passions amidst a realm of infinite freedom

And there we have emancipation from the most desolate silence
In the form of the most desired peace
And the passionate timbres of mourning souls gather
On this spiritual plateau of graceful ease

Cold-blue tones mixed now with warm and yellow
And colorful lights seeping from the stain glass windows
A hall of grief, love and passion all mixed together
Letting the Saintly Bells of Love Echoes Forever

...And there, the right of passage for the Casket

The notes follow his rhythm
And his piano, like a woodpecker’s song,
Its fractured wood sings to mourning hearts