It sits like a powerful god in the centre:
a black sheen reflecting the room’s light.
Standing proudly, firmly on four solid legs,
it waits for the talented to take its seat…
As he sits down on the cushioned seat,
he lifts the solid black gently.
His fingers rest softly on the ivories and ebonies;
a deep breath before the prelude.
Sound stabs through the sombre silence –
it fills the voids of pain.
He sways to the touch of his fingers;
the music takes him away.
Mozart makes the tears slip down his face,
but it mends his heartache (even for a little).
At least the keys accept his truth,
even if his own blood does not.