The rustle of paper greets me as I stand,
The tang of wooden graphite dancing
On the tip of my tongue as
The music of voices surrounds me.
They are waiting for me,
Waiting for my cue to begin,
Waiting for my ear to listen,
Waiting for my fingers to sing
Their song of the far future and past.
One by one their voices arise,
A discordant droning that speaks
Of pain and terror, wrath and need,
A disenchantment that assaults my soul
And pierces my mind with its woe.
Slowly, the chaos of lyrics finds
A pattern, a rhythm, a rhyme,
A way to finally come together
And make greatness in the
Symphonic realm that encases us.
It is then that a single voice,
High and majestic in its coming,
Rises above all the rest,
Taking its turn to be heard by me.
Leisurely, the others fade away,
Content that one of their own
Should finally be able
To move on to their better place
That is controlled by me, was made by me,
Is loved by me.
Alone, that voice tells me
Its troubles and trials,
Its hopes and dreams,
Its fears and sorrows,
Imparting upon me everything
That makes it alive within my mind.
Knowing I will never hear this voice again,
For once its song is done,
It’ll leave this for a world
Into which I cannot follow,
And that every encore forever more
Shall be sung by a different
Voice with the same name
That resonates with a different cord within,
To preserve this fragile friendship that dies as I speak,
I sit down, seal my heart,
And commence to write.