A clock stopped — not the mantel’s-Emily Dickinson.
A clock stopped — not the mantel’s
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.
An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.
It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No
Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.
Wither the Rose- EdwardianPiano.
Wither the rose, youth’s fresh bloom;
Pink fades into ivory pallid compliance,
as the doctor enters the bedroom,
his vital footsteps invading the silence.
Her passion torn from thin, shaking fingers,
consumed by the roar of greedy flames.
He stands by the stained bed, a grave figure,
head bowed, eyes turned away, veiled in pain.
One last defiance! Her heart follows its course,
sitting at the keys to create her own requiem.
Music of the dying spirit, takes the life force;
tones rising and falling, spiralling in delirium.
The withering rose lies on the silent tomb,
as the sun slinks below the ground
shadows glide over stone, alive in the gloom;
He weeps into the night; her spirit cannot be found.
This poem is another window into the world of the young pianist in Piano Love, my short fiction.