the first forces my hand
to these keys, to these cadences,
to the heartbreaking repetition
of melancholy moments--
the comfort I find in you is
intoxicating, illuminating,
my heartstrings are at your will as
the scenes of my life,
carved into old wood from the junction
by the grace of your hands;
precious in execution, precarious in practice,
persecuting my every thought and action;
yet my intention is pure in form: