The pianist
Note after note a story is written,
Words never destined to spew from the mouth.
But the music alone will speak unsaid phrases,
Whilst they dance through an empty and desolate house.
For only the music can open the curtains,
A method to draw in the light.
Its soft sweet sound still drifting slowly,
As the birds outside take flight.
It furnishes with great delicacy,
A house now made a home.
Splashing vivid colour and vibrancy,
On a dwelling where darkness once roamed.
Black and white notes form patterns,
Pressed in harmony with both our hands.
As the strings inside still whisper,
Where the ghost of the pianist stands.
His mind directing our actions,
Him living through our hands.
As they dance across the ebony keys,
Of the battered baby grand.
But no piece can last forever,
Each story must come to an end.
It is not wise to prolong the agony,
Or continue to pretend.
And our pianist must sit amidst the shadows,
With the promise of awaking once more.
For the next two eager owners,
To creak open the rotting door.
YOU ARE READING
My Poem Collection
PoetryA collection of poems I have written on different occasions about problems and struggles of the world.
