the velvety fabric, void of color begs to be painted on by experience untouched purity to be adorned with hues of paint and brushstrokes of gold
your hands trace figures and caress the fabric purposeful strokes that transform into intricate patterns
your benign nature is a wall of security your delicate words soften even a brush’s barbed bristles and your gentle hold creates mesmerizing beauty
will everyone be as gentle? or will my canvas be littered, defiled, and saturated with pungent words handled aggressively, impatiently till all that’s left is a monstrosity that has the audacity to be called art
a bow hurriedly lathered in rosin saws across the taut strings as notes ricochet off the cramped studio’s walls
as my hand grips the mahogany base eyes skim the sheet music and feet tap in irritation I mentally berate myself for choosing to play the violin
whose tender song I once connected with but grew weary of over time
but as music lessons became dreadful and practicing became a chore, I persisted continued to arrive at the studio with apprehension and leave in desolation
but the more I tried to force a dying connection the sooner I came to realize the courage in quitting
courage in quitting
an unfamiliar melody infiltrates his core moving his body in obedience to the lulling resonance of the brass pipe
the boy’s eyes glaze over like those of a bisque doll as he runs through winter’s icy clutches dismissing his mother’s pleas
he joins the assembly of children blending in with his rosy cheeks and flaxen curls
and together they trail behind the incongruous man laughing, shouting skipping, playing up the snow-coated mountains till they reach the Weser
and then one by one they immerse themselves into the river’s arms deeper and deeper till it engulfs them completely and they fall prey to the piper’s malicious ways
stripping the parents of Hamelin of their beloved children and leaving their cry of grief to echo indefinitely
the Pied Piper of Hamelin
a miniature statue sits prettily upon my dresser. her legs delicately crossed at the ankle, a hand resting on her jutting hip, and her neck tilted in coquettish glee.
her presence is less cherished. she is not sought after for Athena’s advice and wisdom, nor is she revered for Artemis’ archery and precision.
instead, the goddess of spring, is ridiculed for her juvenile nature. for falling in love with her abductor, the king of darkness.
but, no one said that the darkness was evil; you assumed it.
Persephone saw the light, within the shadows you run from.
so, she remained in the Underworld, with the sole person who recognized her worth. and they ruled besides each other on black ebony thrones,
imposing eternal damnation upon unfortunate souls.