To the Copyist, hunched over her writing desk,
as her flawless hand duplicates Bach's hurried scoring.

To the K-Pop Choreographer, who watches in the mist
as her fans swoon for someone else instead.

To the Masterer and Technician, kept behind insulated glass
as a talentless celebrity spits fire into their microphone.

To the Arranger, whose own pieces mean nothing
to the world, but whose touch has won over millions.

To the Orchestrator, fresh out of grad school, ******
into a contract that gives them neither money nor credit.

Your voices are heard. But nobody knows they are yours.
And each time we sing your praises to another,
the knife gets twisted again.