prose: the madness of a Composer.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
prose from year 7. for Marxon.

Submitted: July 19, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 19, 2012




as fingers rave, up down, up down, to yet another dead composer’s life on paper:

fast, quick, spiders on a web, weaving a land of dreams and wishes,

abandoned by their creators,  trapped in a room with 86 keys, and no lock, wanting, praying,

composing to get out.


the madness eventually gets to them, their head in a language of dots and lines and

bars and curves, each symbol left in a battle to the death until they reach

the bare minimum for all ten needles to knit as fast as they possibly can

to create a shawl of darkness and loss from love and life.


these men in wigs, their itchy heads scratch, scratch, scratch, like chicken claws on metal

until the sweat from their pressure enters their bare minds with zing

zap and zest for a surprise bar in the middle of romantic serenading, just enough to make her say

“I do” in the trance of seductive music.


it is said that classical is now out of style, but fingers do not care for anything, even if you are

black or white, high or not, loud or mute, or leaving a lasting legacy for even the pinkie

to talk about.  as these ten paintbrushes create a portrait of pure life, classical is far from dead.

in fact, it is simply taking a nap, as the memories are created, in order to compose from the heart.

© Copyright 2018 Kathryn Thorne. All rights reserved.