(Margery moved to the city three months ago with Owen, a long time friend and aspiring painter. She had escaped small town life with hopes of becoming a respected musician. It is all she has ever wanted for herself. Not a single song as been written since her arrival.)
In a high-rise on the south side, taller than the tallest tree.
Perched upon a piano bench.
Little song bird won't you sing for me
But she's sitting real still. No, not a single peep
Weeks draw past as this episode, repeat repeat repeats.
And the silence is filled with such tension the floor wouldn't chance a creak.
And her shape held in such rigid form.
The walls seem to breathe.
And the sun appears at the window, slowly setting beneath the frame.
Gone to rise on a small lonesome town that she left far away.
We hear a rapping at the door.
Her roommate enters with a tray.
The meal is left like an offering, juxtaposed against the empty space.
Though that body must be starving she doesn't turn her hollow face.
Eyes dead set on the faded paint,
In search of something lost, long lost, gone, misplaced.
Her joints snap to the rhythm as she's stamping those delicate feet.
Sounding loud on the hard wooden planks, sending aches through her knees.
ANd the strings sound with a band from her pounding on the keys.
Hitting hard no discernible tune, just to make her hands bleed.
She sings to herself I feel Like I'm lost at sea.
She sings to herself I think I need a drink.