frédéric

oh, frédéric, your hands slender and beautiful are in my mind
and they play songs of love and songs of love and songs of everything
and sometimes i wonder if i'm not your maria incarnate?
or if i'm not your george, that you hated but came to worship
though when your raindrops fall on my ears, i cannot breathe once again
and i drown in the gliding notes that you create and i drown
in the shimmering, moving, moving, moving melodies and i cry
revolution!
in the sprawling mists of the sounds and the thoughts
that came from your pained, enraptured face as you played on that rickety
old piano you rented in majorca as you lived toward your death
and little did you know you still reside not as flesh but
here within me, forevermore

inspired by my most favoritest, most beloved composer Frédéric Chopin (though he's probably rolling in his grave about such horrible dribble being written about him)