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