Ghosts

This is the prose poem I just wrote for class. Posted here for the benefit of someone who wanted to read my horrible failure at poetry. XD

I know you said that I shouldn't follow grammar rules to a T, but dammit that's such a hard thing to break. ^^; I probably failed for the most part. YAY FAILURE.

 Ghosts

She was a grand old thing not touched in years, decades and decades of un-use in layers of dust and sand and creatures that once were. They say there is something about this old singer that is more than what can be seen—she speaks to you but only those gifted with an ear can truly hear her, only those who know in their hearts what music is can truly see her. She haunts many with her voice, resonating to form a melodious sound unmatched when endowed with her perfect match.

He is a master of his métier, skilled hands and skilled ears and a skilled inner cadence belonging only to the few. Long ivory fingers stroke long ivory fingers and she sings, sings and sings and sings her heart out, reverberates through him, through all. His control of her is her control of him and they dance together, step by step, his energy and her gentle croon building to a grand fervor, passion twined intimately with every note, and they come alive.

Deep mahogany tones are what she is, long locks like water through his fingers, ebony and ivory in a gentle mix. And she laughs, long and bright, while in his hands. He is stability, dedication, and warmth; he is the root of her voice, what makes it run free, free from the slow dilapidation of silence. He leads with vehemence like no other, and they sing and dance and create together, create what could be called love.

The last step is low and long, the dampers raised so the note stretches on into forever, and then she is gone in a wisp of sound, a promise lingering on her lips. He sits unmoving in the tranquility, because his motion is her voice, they are one and the same, and they go back into dust, together.