Ghost Piano

In a bustling, backwoods, backwards town, in an inn, stands a piano untamed by musicians and magicians, with its vulpine wires darting their discordant chords, daring each hammer, a hound, to wring a defiant melody from its strings, only eclipsed on the fullest moons by an unperceived player at the keys, an imagined maiden, her slender fingers a ballet, a silencing song among outlaws, bewitched by whiskey and the celestial sound of our world burning down, each note a frozen fire, a crisp reverberating pyre, like old hope trapped in dead men, memory, unknowing, centuries overdue, hewn from starless nights and wrapped in the will to fight, she weaves her dirge where haunted hustlers drown in drink, rapt by a brush with transcendent reverie, unjust even in majesty, for I alone hear her sing.