Beneath the piano's lid
lays a maestro murdered mid sonata.
while the ballroom spun in lace and lies.
The revelers fled, but their souls stayed.

The chandelier still shivers,
as if remembering the scream that shattered the final waltz.
The floorboards remember the rhythm of panic.
A trail of pearls leads to the piano,
like breadcrumbs for the dead

Mirrors fracture under the weight of secrets.
They spill secrets like cold blood.
The portraits have no eyes now.
Their gaze dissolved from knowing.
They saw the music beg for mercy.
They saw the conductor’s baton become a dagger.

The piano plays itself at midnight.
His breath trapped in the strings,
trying to finish the song that killed him.
The keys have no fingerprints.
as if guilt wore its manners.

And in the corner
the last guest remains.
A widow in bone-white gloves,
She waits for the song to end.