The Pianist

Eyes closed, with a breath of ice,

Her fingers glide upon the ivory keys.

Soul adrift, with emptiness inside,

She plays the piano in her own realm.

She weaves a symphony,

With the twisted damasks of untold stories.

She brews a sad melody,

With the broken tunes of ingrained memories.

Each tune, each chord,

Is a masterpiece, a revolution on its own.

Each time you hear her play

Cotton clouds of tears will haunt your day.

But sometimes, with a change ever so slight

You will see her strike those opalescent keys.

Like a mad cackle of insanity

Will follow her nextnote; tunelessly amplifying.

Delicate fingers will then be caked with blood,

As she harps on the wordless cacophony.

You won't bear it, yet you won't stop listening

You are too drawn to her epiphany.

For the pianist plays for her life;

Not for your coin, or your praise.

She channels her thoughts, her passion inside

Into the slow, powerful tempo she builds.

Gracelessly, she will make you sway,

Make you wonder how far this madness will go.

You can't imprison her for words she never said,

But be sure to listen to their echoes as she plays.

Maisha Nazifa Kamal is on a highly confidential mission to defeat all Muggles in procrastination. Join forces with her at 01shreshtha7@gmail.com