Crescendo

And then the whine
Rose from the din, and even
The roses stopped and stared;

The crescendo,
A masterpiece,
Held between the beating heartstrings
And the lungs gasping for air.

Your beauty it seems
It comes from
The delicate sound
The noise before the shatter,
Balancing on the glass wall, my dear.
And your voice can be heard above the rest,
Because of the desperate beauty
You seem to contain.

And through each note
We find the reason to listen
And excuse ourselves from the pause,
Trying to find a home
Nestled between the shrill chords

Your body is small,
Your neck is frail,
But my dear, you are the cymbal clash and
The ringing gong and
The thing that makes it all worth while.