Life’s melody embraced her fingers,
and read to her it’s tragedies by musical notes;
she listened to the voice of the violin,
and fell in love over and over again.
The only symphony that played,
was all the fingers upon her hands,
each graceful touch demanded
the strings to echo death’s inevitable
If it were to rob her of this life,
then may it hear the pain she bleeds;
forcing even death to dance as if no
end was un-foreseen.
She played, and played,
composing rythms from the heart,
designing melodies from dreams,
and sharing life’s concerto part by part.
Even time stood still,
and age had no bearing;
so death fashioned her soon,
but only pure love she was truly wearing.
No beautiful blonde flowing hair,
nor a prince, castle, or steeds;
just solitude, and life’s language,
all crowded and dressed to be.
To play and play until those fingers
refuse to chase each and every note her
heart reads; lest death should change it’s
mind, it is this place and time, she will
only feel free.
The lights turn off,
the curtains close,
she feels her one last note
and one last moment owned.
All becomes dark,
but she has played her greatest show;
upon her face, a tear turns to a Rose,
and she will forever remain in her most gifted pose.