by Helen Margaret Crutchett
Alone she struggles to hear the
symphony that is her thoughts;
scattered minuets mingle
with bursts of images;
feelings blend with staccato chords
of raw emotions.
Prematurely her resplendent rhapsody,
that once resounded in a triumphant
crescendo of love's felicity
piece by piece to become fractured
leaving a discord in her sad sonata,
her heart in tangled tones of
The curtain descends on the finale.
Bowing to an unsympathetic audience
of empty seats, walls echoing silence,
she searches for another song...