When the hard work came

and fingers fell flat

in dyslexic stumbles

at the stern reminders

of the metronome

who eyed her sharply

over dog-eared pages,

it didn’t feel as though

she had been handed

the keys to the kingdom.

It would take thousands

of chromatic notes to scale

that mountain, thousands

of butchered melody lines

to bind chords of muscle memory

and visual acuity into

harmonious union,

inversions ringing

as theory sang its way

into practise.

She couldn’t tell you

when the notes began to stir

something more than

soured milk in her soul,

when the melodies

sank into her bones

and played her heart-strings

in tones of salvation songs;

all she knows is that

these keys have unlocked

Rapunzel’s gate,

releasing the Muse,

and fingering their well-worn

skin ignites her own

with a song

that beats in her breast

with the sound

of her own

pulse.