PianistMore Like This
His fingertips splashed through the ivory keys
With ripples that scattered in rows
While windows bloomed petals of watery pinks
Each kissing his cheeks with a glow
Releasing his notes like a bird caged in spring
He untangled the keys from their din
Making sense of a sequence not meant to be seen
He etches them deep in his skin.
He performs for the windows and plays for the halls
The curtains will sway in his song
The picture frames quiver and jump from the walls
Beneath the great rush of his palms.
So I open my window, before I lay rest
Just to capture a trace of his spawn
It's been years since I've heard it, but still I await
for the chime of the Pianist's song.