This poem came to me when I was playing around on a piano. It came to me so suddenly that I had to jump in my car and speed home, in fear that I would forget one of the poem's lines swarming in my head. So it needs some work, but this is the basic idea.

She played the song
And couldn't stop.
Her musical mind
Too fast
Too brutal
for the innocent keys below her.

The melody in her hands, the poem in her heart.
Both madly stumbling in a dungeon, seeking liberation.

She plays and escapes into a world brooding inside her,
Buried where only music can stretch its Sharp and Flat arms
And pull out a symphony comprehensible.

She struggles As her brain aches desperately
To decipher her fingers' screams.

This note! That one!

She strikes the ivory to punish her humanity that holds her at bay.

Melody pulsing in her heart, a distant memory
Of her life before Life happened and halted her progress.

She masters her score, No one applauses;
No one sees the work and the glory.
She cannot care.

She triumphed in weakness and created true and intimate love.

If only for an evening.