My Merry Rhapsodic April

Once again, here I am,

Sitting with an uneasy sensation,

In a room full of strangers,

Yet, I think I know them; I know their sorrows. 

The feeling of blithe is afar from me,

And maybe the bleak presence chose to stay longer.

This Dreary room with Blue curtains next to me,

Maybe the shabby woman listening to a melancholy ditty,

Or maybe the yawning transcriptionist it is,

Are radiating nothing but dejection towards me.

These mundane premises reek of grim.

With pure deadness coming from lifeless voltaic machines,

With numbness crawling from befouled, uncleaned cluster of files,

With ink-smudged paramount document yet worthless to me,

Here I am, sitting with melodies straight in my ears.

Maybe I am being too dramatic,

But maybe I am that one piano concordant,

Whose always-tapping fingers

Can never resist the immortal sensation of glee.

                          

The unwanted closed room feels like

Never-ending park with spring-sprawling,

Cherry blossoms falling on my blessed face,

Sweet breeze passing me like a piece of peaceful music,

Sleepy cat laying on the riverbank.

Maybe the feeling is Beethoven,

But is it him, or is it really me?

How is the monotonous biting room

unlocking the beauty of harmony to me?

Maybe, It is my Muse.

My Soul,

My Beethoven,

Or my mellifluous dulcet playlist.

Dolor is standing by me with despair,

And yet I am intoxicated, mirthful!

Yet I can feel the music running through my blood,

As if I am in no way close to misery,

But contented sitting in a park,

Living My Merry Rhapsodic April,

With the Buoyant blissful of spring.

As if the masterpiece of art by Chopin is living

Like a convivial little chirping bird,

Inside my numb heart,

Making sure I live day after day,

With nothing left in me but beautiful unpainted hope.