An Ode to Practice Rooms: Wayland #101

To seek equilibrium
in lights and wings and
black board floors,
in red velvet curtains
and rows of seats
Seems strange to me

I am never quiet there.

It is here,
in the dark,
the chill of an empty room
stinging at my arms,
fingertips reading the ridges
that are the landscape of my release—

when wood and wire and ivory
cannot hold me any longer,
those monochrome intermediaries
for the riotous palette of my soul,
I look through to the stars,
A backdrop painted on plate-glass walls

And I am still.

— My voice rises with my song.
It seems my heart
should like to go too,
straining with the rest to rise with it
and fade into the silence beyond

I would let it,
but for the burn
in my throat

And the quiet
in my soul.

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