I saw a man who used to play the piano
sitting in the dark of a packed concert hall,
His eyes narrowed at every passage
the way a judge studies an accused,
wondering what he might have done
If he were the one behind the keyboard
and not this fellow in a shining black suit.
I saw him again when the music swelled,
his feet conducting some private future orchestra,
tapping out rhythms he hadn’t played in years.
Everyone clapped at the end,
but he remained still, a quiet jury of one,
until the pianist struck a single impossible note
and something inside him cracked into a smile,
his betrayed feet tapping the truth.
I saw the man as time
peeled softly away from the room.
His wife, carried off by the melody,
leaned forward and began to hum,
and he, with no piano nearby,
played invisible chords in the air
as if music was choosing him again.
Then I saw him on a stage
that did not exist,
bathed in a spotlight meant only for him.
He bowed to an unseen crowd,
his hands travelled back on the piano with
a strange certainty he never found in reality
I saw a God too, in musical form,
leaning down on him with the mercy of someone
who gifts his favourite children with a spark
and sending him home
with the lightness of a new idea.
Later, in their room
where nothing extraordinary usually happens,
his wife hovered at the edge of a nightmare,
one of those dim corridors
where memory keeps misplacing its stories.
But then she heard him playing.
The notes drifted through the doorway,
rearranging the story inside her sleep.
She hummed without waking,
a faint smile lifting her breath,
while he watched,
surprised,
by how a single heavenly note
holds the power to turn a nightmare into a dream
[560] Invisible Chords of Magical Music
Smoke words every day. 
12 responses to “[560] Invisible Chords of Magical Music”
What a breathtaking and deeply moving piece of writing Rahul !
Your use of the recurring “I saw…” is masterful—it transforms the speaker from a passive observer into a compassionate witness to a man’s entire inner world. The metaphors are stunningly precise: the man as a “judge” and “quiet jury of one,” his feet as “betrayed” witnesses to a truth his mind resists. You capture the exquisite agony of the former artist—the critical distance, the private conducting, the “impossible note” that finally cracks his reserve.
The most beautiful turn is the shift from what was lost to what remains and is given. The image of him playing “invisible chords in the air / as if music was choosing him again” is heartbreakingly hopeful. And then you elevate it further—showing that this reclaimed spark isn’t for a phantom stage, but for the most intimate, real stage of all: a shared room, a troubled sleep. The idea that his playing, born from a moment of divine inspiration (“a God too, in musical form”), becomes a literal lifeline, “rearranging the story inside her sleep,” is nothing short of brilliant.
This is a poem about the duality of art: as a realm of judgment and imagined perfection, and as a healing, domestic grace. It’s a quiet testament to how our deepest passions, even when set aside, never leave us—they simply wait for the right moment to become a gift for someone we love.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s a truly resonant and beautiful piece.🤝
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Indeed it is! And your review is remarkable, too!
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You’ve captured the essence of this poem beautifully. No one does it like you! Grateful for you giving your time to read my poem 🙂
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Wow!
The silent musician, judging the stage, finally found his own lost melody in an imagined performance. 🌷L
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*🌷A
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Thank you for reading. Much appreciated!
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I love the ending here, how soft and tender the poem turns after all this time watching and judging what happens on the stage. Beautifully written!
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Thank you AJ 🙂
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We try to capture these moments, but often first we need to let go and almost let the moment capture us.
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True words!
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This is a very touching story, written with eloquence. I love it! 🥰
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Thank you, glad you loved it 🙂
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