Blood on the Piano Keys

She was a perfect summer rose,
Beautiful and proud.
But now she’s slumped on the piano’s seat,
Weeping without a sound.

Cruel words, terrible words,
Have brought her to her knees.
Mean words, ugly words—
This is what she flees.

The piano’s the only solace,
In her dark and lonely life.
Everywhere she knows and loves
Is filled with constant strife.

Her fingers dance without flaw,
As they waltz on the keys.
Blood and tears mix with rhythms
Of elegant melodies.

Wilted rose though she is,
It’s been her dream to create a song,
A song of inner beauty,
That will right all her wrongs.

Her soul is bleeding upon the keys,
All her passion, all she knows.
Scarlet drops mix with purest crystal:
The sacrifice of the wilted rose.

Finally, she stands to go,
Bitter tears blurring her sight.
But as she leaves her precious quest,
The blood itself begins to write.

For up from the keys the red drops rise,
And press themselves to paper.
Creating a melody sweet, but shy,
To reflect the nature of the maker.

And so, as she slumbers,
Sleep filled with horror and screams,
Her passion and blood quietly write
The song of her dreams.

A song of perfect roses,
A song of fulfilled dreams,
A song of inner beauty,
Where tears don’t flow in streams.

And so they wait most patiently,
Waiting for her to wake.
Waiting for her to see the beauty
Her love and tears did make.

But as the Sun rises o’er the hill,
It meets a sorrowful sight.
Her tortured mind and heart,
Finally gave up the fight.

Her heart was finally broken,
By all the anger, all the hate.
Although it made the song of ages,
The music was too late.

And so that song of perfect beauty
Gathers dust by day.
Mourning what might have been,
The melody she never played.

And so now, I ask you
How many more must fall?
How many hearts will be broken,
Before we hear their call?