He was the ocean, the twilight depths;
he was red and black-blue.
he was the delicate cry of pale orchids nodding in northern light:
I believed in him, and chased him with all my peasant passion.
Up and down the keys of black and white,
through a glass darkly,
I reached, I stretched, and my wrists ached.
permanent knots in my shoulders from malpractice,
but knotty arpeggios flickered frenetically,
painting with sound a fantasy that music was an answer, an embrace, a goal, and would be found soon,
always very soon.
Silent wait the keys and my wrists are loathe to ache from that percussion again;
the tatting of notes are missing from the stand.
My passion got in the way of discipline,
so I sit like an untamed fourteen-year-old trying to imagine a Neverland in musical notes,
a social filibuster.
Still later, in a quiet and beautiful way, I began to appreciate fairy tales once again.
Why grasp? crushing grasp!
No, no.
Joy is falling asleep--sweet drift!--when you were still awake.
Maybe I can start over with dreams and forgiveness.
