Tempo grave, sempre sospirando

An inner nocturne
When I am writing my own opus
The ink stains carress my hand
Crossed out lines, struck down

I am my own symphony
The sad tones of E flat minor
Paint the walls of this chamber a naive black
It creases the sheet music that I play

The resonating chamber within its thorny grasp
Keep my hands from playing
As the melancholic tones
Play their song on their own


#


The piano plays
I         yet
  have
     to
       compose


The piano GLEAMS
Something


The piano SINGS
that    keeps    me


||: The piano LINGERS
From             choking
         myself


The piano SUFFERS
In an             eternal
         embrace

The   p i a n o   SCREAMS :||
The   p i a n o   CHOKES
The   p i a n o   DIES
the
      p i a n o

Of              needles
and             thorns

D.S. Al fine, senza repetizione