The Piano tells a sad story,

A story of loneliness,

Notes that fade like snow on a sunny day;

But then something happens,

Like a beast being awoken from its sleep.

Slowly like an old van, the tempo accelerates,

The bassline sneaks in like a spider;

Suddenly the electric guitar wails, bending the notes as easily as a superhero bending metal,

The drummer driving the tune like a coachman trying to control his wild mustangs,

The thunderous beat pounding like the mustangs hooves.

A silent assassin,

Savagely slinking,

Cloaked in darkness,

Invisible to the eye,

Eyes on the prize,

An angel of death, watching from the heavens,

Born to rule, with centuries of training,

Wise beyond years,

The sultan of the skies,

A domain of lawlessness, but a fair ruler,

Quick like lightning, moving majestically,

Eyes like embers, burning through the cold night.

It returns to its castle, for it has caught its prize

A castle high on a hill,

Where earth scrapes the sky,

An unreachable fortress, an impenetrable keep,

Where its hiers silently sleep,

Patiently waiting for their guardians return,

The sun begins to rise, as the owl settles down in its throne.

Something is awake.

Light goes on.

Squint.

Fumble for glasses.

A troubled child, clanking two toy trucks.

“Bad dream,” he mumbles.

Dreams are new to him.

They have happened twice this week.

He whimpers, “Scary.”

“What did you dream?” I ask,

Peering into his teary blue eyes.

“Monster truck. Crush me.”

The tears start again.

We all feel that way these days, I want to say,

Crushed, scared;

But instead I cuddle him in a lie,

A dinosaur blanket—peace, love, warmth—saying,

“You are safe.”

Yesterday, I remembered, when we giggled all night,

Underneath the blankets in dim candlelight.

Today, I would give anything to hear,

Your secrets and stories you had told without fear.

Yesterday, I remembered when you had climbed that tree.

I was too scared to do it, but you had said, “Just watch me!”

Today, that same tree is about to fall down,

Taking you with it as it hits the ground.

Yesterday, I remembered, sharing an ice cream with you.

You had wanted one that’s color was a bright blue,

Today, I had eaten the same ice cream at the same store,

But it didn’t taste as sweet as it did before.

Yesterday, I remembered, us finding a soft place to lie,

You had shown me the stars that slept in the sky.

Today, I look up to try to find the same stars,

And wish I had captured them in little glass jars.

Two girls fly together on a swing,

Laughter echoing through the trees;

Moments like these leave them thinking

That they are the only two people in the world.

Jazz music tumbles out of open windows

And surrounds their little world,

Like a golden cage around a wren,

To protect the sweet song it sings.

But the cage has been broken,

And the wren has gotten lost;

Only one girl sits on the swing now,

Somber and lonely,

Swinging back and forth slowly.

Empty promises of letters and calls still fresh in her mind.

No music is heard because the windows are shut,

The ghost of laughter still echoing through the trees.

They waited restlessly, revving up for the race,

Stomping, stamping, snorting,

Massive beasts of beauty,

Strong as steel, and battle hardened,

Adrenaline intoxicating rider and steed,

Slick with sweat,

Shaking with excitement, or fear?

Rain relentlessly beating down, a disfigured path ahead,

Apollo not showing his face today,

But Poseidon’s beasts are ready,

The gates swing open,

The chains are broken,

A stampede storms ahead,

Sloshing and slipping in the mud,

Two working as one,

Jostling and bumping for position,

Pounding hooves and beating hearts,

Cutting through wind and rain.

I am told I should strive for change,

For what is new and unknown,

But it’s hard to change, it’s hard to say goodbye to familiarity.

A lot of people don’t like change:

I still read the same books, I still listen to the same music;

How do I outrun who I am? 

How do I leave what never asks me to go?

No matter how many trials I put myself through, I can never flee my own skin.

Freedom will never be tasted by the tongue that is so in love with the bite.

One book, old and falling apart,

Pieces of worn out tape pasted on the spine.

The fourth chapter sticks out slightly.

The pages, now a worn, dusty brown,

Are held together by my love.

Sitting at the top of my bookshelf,

It is door waiting to be opened:

Filled with memories and adventures that aren’t mine,

With my friends that I cannot keep,

With curiosity and excitement imprinted in its pages the first time I read it.

Pages are thin and delicate,

Like a falling feather;

And the almost broken binding,

A chipped china tea cup,

That could shatter if held too tightly.

Stories and characters,

As dear to me as any in the real world:

A collection of moments,

That I get to hold in my very hands.