he sits with a scarred face,
pressing rain-filled keys
on an untuned piano
with lonely fingers. his feet
don't touch the floor, and his
muscles are too weak to make
much noise, so no one really hears.
the white has faded to grey, as has
the black, but to him it's normal.
it's a strange tune, where there isn't
much sound and what little music
there is sings dissonant notes
through empty windows. he's a
strange musician, who plays for
silent audiences that hold dead
roses, but you cannot look them
in the eye. there is a sadness in
the downward's curve of his back;
some may call it bad posture,
but i call it bad luck. the song
drags on, without rhythm or
structure - just tangled strings of
agonised melody that make no
sense, and shield him from
a world beyond the stage, threading
together to form coarse skeins
of cloud above a ruined theatre. the
pedals are abandoned; the people
are curiously still. he plays the final key, and it ripples gently, never quite
fading. the curtain falls, the lights
go out, and he gets up and bows
to the heavy fabric while a faint
sobbing continues to waver in
and out of consciousness. he stands
with a scarred face, and forgets to
play dissonant notes with his lonely
fingers to a silent audience, and
i truly believe this is the most
beautiful performance i will never
have the misfortune to hear.