Armchair and arms up.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into a shaking skull. 
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won&#39;t voice his weariness.

The sound&#39;s more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
 than it should.
He plays the tears he can&#39;t show, 
and it&#39;s understood
as the instrument moans.
That&#39;s all he needs to show a world
that doesn&#39;t know what his pain sounds like.
He&#39;d talk about it if he could. 
Rachmaninov understood.