A weightless shiver of haunting breeze
stirring the ghost-lace of a widow’s veil,
drifting through corridors, rattling keys,
telling a story too hollow to fail.
The dust of a dead man’s piano settled
a grey velvet skin on the middle-C chord,
where the echoes of passion, mettled,
now lie like a rusted and forgotten sword.
The air has a pulse, the stillness has veins
a silence that has learned how to breathe,
sifting through shadows and old camphor stains,
where memories coil and the memories wreathe.
Then…a fingertip ghosts over ivory and bone
a soft, sudden pressure, a sigh in the dark,
a nocturne awakens, adrift and alone,
striking the silence like a dying spark.
It is a nocturne from the ghost of a Chopin
written in ink made of moonlight and salt,
a melody looping, a recursive spin,
bringing the heart to a shimmering halt.
The music is water…the music is smoke
playing in rooms, the mirrors have choked,
until the heavy gold silence is finally broke,
by a song that is felt, but never once heard.
