When the Music stopped

I knew that something was dreadfully wrong

An ill wind was blowing

I felt it approaching...heard words spoken

As plain as day...

"Something wicked this way comes"

As if conjured by the Second Witch

In Shakespeare's omen bound Macbeth.

Something evil this way comes...I gasped

It was then that she approached...

"We need to talk"...spilled like acid

from her tongue

Accompanied by a quiet sadness

As she tried hard not to cry...

And that is when the music stopped,

Bringing with it

A deafening sound of nothingness.

There began to churn a vapid colorlessness

From somewhere deep within his soul

Like the hushed pause which ensues

between the angelic sounding

of the final trumpet far up in the Heavens

Signaling dreadful woe and mournful sorrow.

Fingers paused above the piano keys of life.

Lips unkissed the breathless tempo, which once

Accompanied the joyful motion of the horn.

The guitar strings reached upwards

seeking fingers that once strummed happiness.

The bass drum sounded one last distal boom

Flinging his soul away from the center of his body

Far beyond the point of attachment of his mind.

She spoke words of goodbye, but he heard not one.

His mind had begun to splinter.

His world fast spiraling down a rabbit hole

Where Alice found him wandering in Wonderland,

Seating him by the Mad Hatter who had a silly grin

Plastered all over his face.

He took a deep breath...closed his eyes, stood up

And clicked his heels three times...

Hoping to return to sanity

"There's no place like home".

Home again...She had gathered her things and left

Little reminders of her were scattered everywhere

A scarf, quirky jewelry, a half-eaten sandwich

She had packed in a hurry

And he never even heard, or saw her leave

The music was where she lived, when it stopped

He could not see her anymore, everything had

Disappeared as he spiraled outside of himself.

His world had caved in...like a cavernous void

In a road, into which he had fallen headfirst

Spinning, falling...Dropping.

He reached one hand up...and barely audible

A cry for help escaped his lips

A passing stranger,

now a dear friend, upon hearing his cry

Leaned towards where metaphor met prayer

At a crossroads between his here and there

And reached down a hand

He grasped it, thankful for the olive branch

Giving him the strength to emerge

For he again began to hear the soft tones of Jazz

Playing somewhere far away...yet approaching closer

The harp played a hallelujah sweet refrain

The banjo crooned a Caribbean warm breeze

His heart sighed!

A stranger had given him new hope

He began to climb back up the sides of himself

His body adjusting from its woeful refrain

The music played louder and louder

Soon...very soon

It would crescendo into newness!

Everything is better, when the music plays.