I wrote a note and spoke a chord. A simple, perfect course which treats the soul with longing for more. Life and breath flow through beauty in song. This, my masterpiece, belongs in history. I take my stance. Arms held high, foot tapping to begin tempo.
Sharply inhaling, the race for perfection begins. The bassoon plays her harmony, but what is heard is dissonance. Flutists sharply tonguing her death with high pitched trills. Mocking trumpets' improvised solos churn the fates of the bleeding woodwind. Defending her, I strive to retrieve the flailing tune. The bassoon struggles to fight fire with wooden reed. Hear now, the shocking smacks on percussive waists pierce steel and wood and persecute the sole bassoon, still reading even to the last bar. The final beats, directed in retardando as written drag out the abuse.
She has played her last attempt while empty clefs lie in waiting. Falling to the ground, I cannot control my weeping for the innocent one, hidden among monsters. Unadorned rape of melody betrays us.
My only hope is beyond today, fighting on to prove them all. Perhaps we'll strive with swollen hearts and burning chests. One less strong, we will play again.
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