Melliflocity

Delicately tapping the black and white glowing notes, 

easily coaxing them from within the inner convoluted convulsions. 

The sleek, shined surface of the mysterious antique, 

once upon a time left forgotten, dustily staring wordlessly at the Seine, 

now restored to glory by fingers of gold and a white-silvered soul.

Window thrust open, notes waft to below,

A crowd gathers; chanting, demanding for more – 

but the delicate tapping now softens to a murmured brushing, 

and the easel of notes that had lazily cascaded, 

is now dipped slowly in silence.

Until the faint echoes of harmony exist solely 

in the time of the past and the space of the memory

and a pyre of burning sound now replaces the fluid melliflocity, 

 you cover your ears and hide your soul, and become unsure if it ever existed,

 this delicate tapping.