Opus Poem by Norman F. Santos

There was a widow pianist
Who plays most pristinely
That would drag your feet
Into an emollient waltz
But you would never hear
The banshee caterwauling;
His opus.

There was a limped painter
Who paints in fluid levity
That extends such gaiety
To purge the ashen scene
But you would never see
The withering canvass;
His opus.

There was a smug architect
Who design most intricately
That your eyes and mouth gape
Musing in an ornate beauty
But you would never find
The crying skyscraper;
His opus.

There was a coy poet
Who wrote in enigmatic strokes
That would pull a knot in your head
And sometimes in your chest
But you can never read
The written yearning;
His opus.