his conversations are a thousand letters fashioned,
each their own message, each a deep well of passion
and meaning only waiting to be opened and read.
meaning exchanged both ways, unspoken and said
his overtures penned, and his responses pre-recorded
but totally sincere, when by my touch they’re ordered.
though another may revel in his storytelling tones,
this account, at this time and place, is to me and me alone.
a dance between us, him taking the lead,
my hands following in trust, delicate as to heed
his plaintive message in the spirit it were commanded
a trance, brief but all-consuming, sung two-handed
an impression of his heart, so eloquently expressed
through unassuming dashes on canvas that does attest
to the tone of his voice, and the story told so sure
and definite in its beauty, then sorrowful and raw
that ‘poet of the piano’ is a title befitting,
daring cadences unresolved, at odd ends sitting,
intimate in texture, free from strict rhythmic mould,
firm but graceful like a waltzing couple’s hold
of each other as they sway and trill across
the ivory dancefloor, in a hall of dark wood gloss
twinkling lights on high, of a lovers chandelier
by the reverence of his pen, expressed so dear,
not an orchestra to paint the masterpiece he pens,
but one heart, two limbs, and five artists at each end,
that was ripped from his body on its cadence plagal,
implanted in me but briefly, to tell a private fable
of such fervor that unbridled in stave puts prose
or verse to shame. indeed, no attempt goes
unashamed in its inadequacy to inscribe by hand,
the expressions of Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin.
Distilled Orthopraxy 