Chopin died tonight.
Smashed to jagged plastic bits and stringy paper.
Hurled through space and sought eternity
At some distant barrier.
A thousand times he played in this room,
Danced his melodies across four walls
Brightened the lingering odor of nicotine and fresh spilt ink,
And discovered freedom and its discontents
Amidst confinement in the corridor hall.
He shall play no more,
Circling his own delight
Upon a spinning table
With reflected light applauding from the ceiling.
Instead, he'll be further crushed and swept away
From an intemperate hand
That found his notes and subtle hints of memory
Suddenly too revealing.