I Write Poetry

The roar of their laughter
echoes in the empty hallway.
She makes her quiet getaway,
socializing wasn't a priority.

Retreating to a familiar room,
she sits down on a charcoal bench
in front of the piano.
A solitude;
her open hiding place.

The hands, polished and sparing,
glide over the keys,
the silence broken
by the vibration of the strings,
the desire to play
leaves as the sorrow seeped in,
causing her glowing light to dim.

Her life is a delicate leaf,
falling at the mercy of the wind.
Its colors muted, a faded mosaic,
fluttering uncontrollably,
spinning towards the ground
like a golden snowflake.
There it will lay, abandoned,
forgotten over time,
the fragments scattered
leaving no trace
of its existence.