Symphony of Myself | Jennifer Juneau

An instrument strung in detention. 
In word, susurrant.

This composition trembles something
glowing. Shy maybe.

Childlike and ego-wasted.
I conduct a prize-worthy

piece only I heed. Attempt the triolin:
three-stringed melody ablaze.

The confession of a chord
fizzles out the quartet.

Can someone deck this moment in a tux?
A long glimmering dress?

Comes a generosity in my state-of-the-art
precinct of flux

as I dispatch notes hired by me.
I am the ovation I crave

nightly.
Musical chasm I graze and erupt.
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