His voice is a single pluck of the harp string,
combined with the painful moan of the violin.
Backed by the flute's birdsong chatter
and joined by the trumpet call of dawn.

The smile, comparable only to the soprano's voice,
Gives way to the motions of an organ's chilling breath.
And like the Church choir's joy
a dance begins to form.

Now the legs begin a tap dance,
guided by the allegro cry of the piano,
and the bracing molto of the cello's deepest chords.
Every gentle twist of hip and torso
stuns the humbling tenor's sea of sounds.

The Ballet gives way to Waltz,
The fiddle is again center stage
and his heart begins to pound like drums,
and shivers join across his skin as hands are
clasped against the bass
and more enduring brass begins its glorious sway.

Colors fly across the hall and echoes
fill the once silent walls,
and his laughter steals them all.
One last beat is heard, tendons tied and strung no more,
muscles loose and veins drained,
he is spent.