Pain

You straighten your mustard-coloured hat
As you sit straight-backed
Fingers flexed elastic
Ready to wreak madness
Melodies squeezed from the depths of despair
Squeezing the piano dry
Filled with black rhythms
Putrid with pain
A moat of muddy misery
And longing…

You smile your image in the
Ebony chrome, casting shadows of your fangs.
The music begins
The room suddenly melts
Become molten tar

(Nicky also writes under the pseudonym, Ana Lei Nichols.)

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