Anxiety streams from every pore,
you hope the thought of completion, nothing more.
Your fingers may tremble, or maybe even stumble,
but the art you’ve expressed, is hard to muffle.
Each nervous beat of your heart
is growing confidence that echoes rhythm on the chart.
The gradual smoothness and abrupt peaks,
illustrating infinite mountains, valleys and creeks;
bringing shame to melodies from a bird's beak.
Each sharp and every flat,
is brought out cleverly,
pronouncing every act.
The dance of your phalanges,
skimming scale after scale.
They sing out stories,
revealing tale after tale.
Who can step up to the chair?
Who can judge if that is fair?
with the exception of one.
The moment you stepped in,
you have already won.
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