The Grand Stave
The moderately slow pace at which I begin my song,
Smooth and soothing,
Like the touch of a gentle breeze
On delicate skin,
My song continues, at a rising pace it’s tension follows suit
Anxiety grows and I begin to fight this change,
For a metamorphosis is not necessary and I am happy.
I am happy traveling slowly, slurring the notes.
I am happy with the gentle breeze on delicate skin,
My melody gains momentum.
It becomes stronger, more powerful, overwhelming
To a woman like me, so utterly lacking in wisdom.
So completely unacquainted with grief and pain.
So terrified of this newfound struggle,
I spin out of control, this tempo sending me
Spiraling into suffering.
And I long for the smooth breeze on delicate skin,
My song comes to fruition,
Nearing the peak of its furious forte.
Sending my stomach into stress ridden flips
And my head and heart into a crescendo.
A cacophony of sound piercing my soul in ways
I had never before known.
And I long for the smooth breeze,
On delicate skin,
The point in my melody at which I become lost.
Aching and hurting,
Feeling nothing and everything at the same time,
I am crying out.
I no longer have qualms about asking for help,
Or looking weak,
Because this furious rhythm has made me exactly so.
Over and over one thought rips through my mind
Begging for help. Begging for someone to come.
Begging. Begging. Begging.
I am treating stocattos like fermatas in a graceless attempt to slow down
And I have never longed more,
For the smooth breeze
On delicate skin
Finally, the denouement of my song.
The resolution to my prolonged suffering.
Finally, I find myself at ease.
My slow, calm, gentle breeze on delicate skin.
I am steadied. Grounded. I welcome the newfound support,
And god, I welcome this new tempo.
I welcome the rhythm. Adagio.