By Benito Sauceda

The musician’s tattered suit fluttered
A reflection of the man inside
His top hat swayed slightly
In the gentle breeze;

He walked up to it.
He did not know what would happen if he played.
On it, a thin blanket of dust,
And a piece of paper with one word scratched on it.

The musician ran his fingers along the wood,
causing the dust to swirl.
The wood was cool to the touch,
and the finish gave off a dull glint:

A storm of memories flooded the musician,
Reminding him why he had stopped.
He had no desire to resume where he left off,
but he couldn’t take his fingers off the piano.

He launched into a melody,
It was heart wrenchingly sad.
But it wasn’t him playing
He realized that once more, he had been

He knew from the bottom of his soul,
this time,
No one would help.
He would not escape.
He would keep playing until,
He too had been

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