4 of 215

by Sarah Terzo

At five, my fingers danced
over yellowed keys.
There I escaped my father's snarls
the voices hissing in my head
(what the hell is wrong with you now?)
I savored the sounds
the notes curling
melody unfurling
like black-petaled roses
reaching for idealistic suns.
(my daytime silence echoed by a choir of thousands)
As pale candles drip
onto scrawled lines
I sit, pen pressed
to the thin paper
(The music made me
The music keeps me
I pray the music will never leave me)
By day I hide
safe, adrift in sleep's dark ocean
I dare not look in mirrors for
I am the empty spaces between the notes.

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Poetry: Struggle

by Sarah Terzo

Poetry: Struggle

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