Burnt Bats

Notes hang between staves

Like burnt bats on display,

Strung high on electric wires,

Speaking a language

Ever so confusing,

Ever so elusive.

One knows not

The struggle of the climb

Till one’s feet hang off the ledge.

Paganini and Rachmaninoff

Taunt each effort

As formless shadows,

Disembodied but proud.

They sing forever

In a million sheets,

In an eternal orchestra

That I will never join.

It is a pain and a joy

To watch the glide of fingers,

Mapping notes

Like scattered islands of an Archipelago.

Horse hair,

Strung tight as sinews,

Floats over wood.

Angel voiced

Played by Lucifer’s hands.

The soul is enraptured.

Thinly veiled symphonies

Of violas and cellos,

Violins and basses

Play in my ears.

Tantalisingly close,

Hauntingly far.

The secret to it all

Hidden betwixt thin lines,

Hung like burnt bats

With ears shut

And empty eyes taunting.