the famous conductor

He flits a wrist,

elongating a hand,

that extends to collect seven trumpets.

They tremble with force as he extracts soul

from each trumpeter in unison,

slowly drawing their horns out completely

before flicking his fingers to close the section.

As the syrupy residue of sound

glistens off their brass cups,

he gathers up momentum,

shifting it towards clarinets

that he will dance down to the heavy drums 

he’d just invited in with a striking motion.

 He allows the dramatic echo of reverb to press through the audience

they stir as the bass settle’s.

A clear display of his master control.

For the seconds that preface a whipping frenzy of motion and noise,

he’d stilled the stars. 

For the seconds that proceeded,

they were one body.

His livened eyes flare,

dead set on the center of the orchestra,

seemingly entranced.

He diddles air gently to signal

pianos chirps.

No one in attendance

anticipates this songs end.

To be completely honest,

even the idea of a finale

is coupled with a small amount of fear.

In this place where

 light is reserved for illuminating staging behind the instruments,

leaving us,

the audience,

in the middle of nowhere,

staring away from our


believing for a short time,

that one day


could be us.

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