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Description
There's something holy about an empty stage,
One to play, none to listen.
The purity of the noise silence makes
The intense spotlights rest their eyes on the lone man
The figure stands alone, bearing only himself and his instrument.
The diaphragm contracts to sing
through the sax's golden metal bell
The bony fingers meticulously fly, giving birth
to my ears' pure bliss.

My spine rattles through me, standing alone
and dropping eaves from behind the heavy door, separating
the loud, teeming world backstage from his melodic meditation.
My fingers ache at the metallic handle, nothing more than longing...

And I shudder at the thought of disturbance.