It is written by my hand.

But conducted by another.

It is filled with notes of my hopes.

That lay on the lines of my demise.

My veins became a flute. Hollowed twigs with holes.

Where only dry air flows.

Forced through by blistered lips.

My skin become a harp of ice.

with strings made of frost.

Caring hands phased right through.

The violins were my cry's.

It is the solo in which I live.

The solo in which no one came to listen.

My heart was the bass.

A rumbling in the chest. A deepening passion.

It was the instrument no one came to play.

My life was a song.

A symphony of silence.

In an orchestra of violence.