I want to begin.
Tiptoeing around corners of crystal and down a grand staircase.
Finding my way through a twisted maze into a trance place.
Wrapping myself in between the notes,
each as pure velvet across my skin.
No common words to put in verse.
Tumbling down the steps to look for the next hold.
Slowing myself down to find each next one unfold.
Twirling ribbons around each singular bridge's throat,
not tangled up in the usurer's purse.
Each repeat with a story.
Laying down in the rests and silence.
Rising with the crescendos in their own defense.
Guiding diminuendos into their unspoken grace,
Each element acting in their former glory.
Yet stories must come to and end.
And as Debussy hath wrote his own,
I must write mine, for the zephyrs have blown.
Showing me the path the moon's light hath wrought,
giving me the outlet in which to transcend.
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