As though the strings

are silver strands

of angel hair,

she gently plucks,

each note a ghostly droplet,

trickling waterfalls.

She swallows

flawless ripples

of melodious air

and as the music

seeps its sadness,

her heart weeps.

Each trill

and transient note

are born,

and die,

the flats and sharps

embalming her in spell.

The pipe is sweeter

than a nightingale,

the lilt

a dreamy drift

to blissful rest.

But as she sculpts

the silence

into filigree,

ephemeral

as an imprint of the light,

she shivers

at the lurking naked void,

blacker than black,

whiter than white.

Her fingers crawl

towards the calling coda

and she gulps for life

as minor keys weigh heavy

and she gasps

as passion

mutates to propulsion.

At the end,

she draws in blasts

of shallow emptiness,

tastes lifelessness,

unseasoned,

on her palate.

Confined by stillness,

she acknowledges the barline

and in a stream

exhales existence

in finale.