THE GREATEST SYMPHONY HE EVER PLAYED

His fingers touched the keys every so lightly

his hands moved in grace

his head moving to the rhythm.

His eyes closed

as his fingers made sweet love

the notes hanging on to his fingers

Marvel, he was.

God of music, he was.

 

The piano squeaked under him

his fingers in perfect harmony

as they jumped out of his mind

into the world.

Loud they went,

Soft they ended.

Hands lifting in position

legs tapping to the sensation.

He sat there

in his coat

not living

just existing.

 

Transfixed she was,

as the notes spun flowers

that braided her hair.

Beautiful they were

as they braided her heart

in perfect harmony.

Entangling itself perfectly

into her ears.

She felt him

his heart,

his love,

his life.

And that was enough.

 

She stood up

unable to torture herself

for she was wedded.

The love could never be recognized.

She ran from him.

She ran from the music.

She ran from her heart.

She could hear the notes

as she got into her carriage.

She was being beckoned

by him and she could not run

back to him, into his arms.

 

The music killed him.

He let a part of him flow through the fingers.

His heart out in the open

bare and naked.

He was disturbed

by her taking leave.

How could she?

So rude.

Was his music not good enough?

Was his fingers not playing enough?

He let his heart slip away,

and angry was his fingers

as they slipped on the wrong key

and the entire symphony

rendered useless to the audience.

He stopped,

the music hall in silence as they watched

the once celebrated musician

make a mistake.

 

She could not believe it,

she was far yet not far enough.

She heard the music stop.

Her heart tore open

and her eyes screamed.

The coach stopped and she ran.

Back to the silence radiating

from a broken heart

that could never be repaired.

She ran as fast her legs could carry her,

her shoes wearing off

her feet killing her

but she ran

to the silence.

 

The door opened loudly

as she entered.

The audience turned

and there she stood,

the wife of the pianist

who made his first ever mistake.

He looked at her

searching for forgiveness.

And forgive she did

for he was pained.

Her smile synchronized his fingers

as they leapt back up to the instrument.

His eyes open,

he played the greatest symphony ever.
He looked at her

promising her his virtues.

For music consumed him

Music consumed that women’s husband.

And love did it demand

And love it received.

But his wife, never appreciated

never looked at,

never caressed,

died every time he made love to music.

 

What he din’t know,

she was his notes,

she was the woman for whom he played,

she was his instrument,

she was his music

and without her

he was no musician.

That day and henceforth,

he loved her and old they grew

till one day he died playing

the greatest symphony he had once played.

 

~Freida

 

This poetry was published by me some time back and when suddenly checked by me recently, found that it had completely disappeared from my blog. Creepy little blog of mine 🙂

 

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