Her fingers rest upon those demon keys:
Black and White entwine in death’s embrace.
She feels the pulse of power as she frees
them from the wood in which they are encased.
Her audience is none but empty rooms,
not filled with God, but a lack thereof.
Reminiscent of those empty tombs,
her melody fills every crack and cove.
These devil chords ring somber, cold, and clear,
their maker nodding in approval earned.
Crescendos show the world its darkest fears;
the final notes are lessons never learned.
The pianist knows these creatures far too well
and shuts again the gates of her own hell.
