He stood in the spotlight, A neat pressed suit, The crowd cheered as his fingers danced along the keys, Not knowing they were stolen. He took it from his brother, A failed experiment of sheet music. A melody he couldn't use. Stolen from discarded scraps But the crowd loved it... The brother was born with melody, Felt the music in his bones, A rhythm in his dreams, Lived it, hungered for it. Made it part of himself. The other, stole from his trash, Claimed it as his own, Gained acclaim, took credit, Reveled in the limelight. "Let them believe," his brother smiled. “No one cares who wrote it. He put on a good show.” He swallowed his pride whole, a bitter pill he’d learned to chew— pretending the light was empty. But art… Art is blood. And there’s only so long You can pretend. The stage came calling. Live Unrehearsed. Just a piano, Two mics, And truth. The charlatan took his place on the mic, But the magician... He closed his eyes. And the room disappeared. He poured! He poured... Not just music— Grief. Joy. Shame. Every wound and wonder He’d ever known Came screaming through the keys. When it ended, The silence was louder than applause. The truth was deafening. His brother left to weep quietly backstage, Not from guilt, But from the cold realization: He can NEVER compare. The crowd stood and applauded, And the magician took a bow.
