A dark hall, echoes of life.

Certainty balanced on the edge of a knife.

Huge planes of glass, no sun do they reveal.

All comfort does this hallway steal.



But resonating out over the remnants of existence,

I can hear the soft notes full of resistance.

Refusing to succumb to the gloom,

A pianist plays, her music fills the room.



Every time I must walk this dark-lit hall,

I draw strength from the piano’s willful call.

Her fingers craft my sanctuary.

No longer need I be fearful or weary.



Then late one day, in a bad state of mind,

Woeful thoughts, I do find.

A friend gives advice to me.

The pianist’s face, I must see.



A the threshold of the hall, I stand.

The time to see her face at hand.

Then I realize what I don’t hear.

Her beautiful music does not reach my ear.



Cautiously, I step into the hopeless void.

Lights, life, and music it is devoid.

I creep to, and at the piano’s bench, I stare.

But the pianist was not there.



I stare down to the hallway’s end,

And without the pianist’s strength to lend,

There is no music in which I can confide,

And I know not how I will make it to the other side