The Bold, the Black, and the Broken Octaves

It lazes on the music stand, dangling its

Feet, laughing heartily at its ability to

Frighten me. Another day waltzes past,

And another potential practice session drops

Shamelessly into the black pit that beams with many

Similar days. My hands feel dry and stiff–

A physical reminder plowing through my mental barricades

That tell me practicing is optional—a mere choice,

Just like eating or setting out on a jog.

The score, ferocious in all its presto-filled

Glory, lies open atop the piano, emitting

Vibrations of guilt each time I saunter past.

Oh, the respect it demands of each of its

Victims… its willing, frighteningly obsessed

Victims.

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