F minor

My fingers drawn to
A pattern of flats
Four to be exact

A melancholy progression
With a few dramatic suggestions
Thrown in for good measure

I am pulled into
A seductive embrace,
Anticipating the next passionate stab

My hands
Are the masters
Of this musical interlude

Bringing the keys
To the edge
Of a breathless abyss

And plunging all
Into the chasm
Of delicious despair

It is a terrifying spell
And an excitement
Without boundaries

And then unexpectedly
I discover an F
Resting in the upper register

Whose voice is untamed
Uncaptured
And unrealized

I play it again and again
My ear twisting away
From the dissonance

Yet turning back
For another listen
To its plaintive sound

Slightly out of tune
But delightfully rakish
In its intent

LiNdA