Can there be joy in pain?

Release in death?

Beauty in tragedy?

Can my fingers tickle the water and play a tune?

Can my feet dance in quicksand?

Why not?

Sounds like I managed if I can write a three-line poem about it.

Picture prompt:

The pianists fingers tickled the surface, while
his other arm reached out in search of air.
Nobody saw his toes dancing in the quicksand.

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