And there she sat on the black leather bench, fingers upon the ivory keys.
To her the world was naught but a note on the scale – fleeting, changing.
It was all temporary.
To the marks of a pen scratching on paper, she listened.
To the ink stains lined with well-rehearsed strokes, she smiled.
To the world it meant nothing, but to her, it meant the world.
To end the beginning was a price too high.
What comes free, must come, ironically with a price.
The last of the notes were played, the last ink drops faded away.
This is just a snippet of what’s to come. In all honesty I still don’t know what to make out of this. I could just leave it as a poem, in all its natural glory. But I want to use it for something bigger.
Cheers for now.