I can picture his silhouette
seated at the massive instrument
against the moon through open glass doors
as he overlooked the night,
The crimson drapes floating solemnly overhead
beckoning the autumn leaves
quietly in on the pale moonlight.
Suddenly I see panic in his eyes
as urgency springs from his fingers.
Overlooking a moonlit world
he orchestrated his soul
and matched a bitter autumn night
note-for-note. Then I felt what he felt
when he looked into her eyes.
Moonlight, they called it.
Dedicated to Beethoven