How delicate should I be
for me to play on the strings of a spider’s web?
Will I be able to hear the sad harmony
played on these fine lines?
Or are the small creatures of this world
the only ones to enjoy the sweet melancholy
coming out from my worn-out and stained fingertips?
Will they unite
to listen to the stories
of a heart that barely survived?
White and black keys,
Smooth and curved around the edges,
Sharp and blunt when required.
A grand piano.
He plays me well, you see.
So soft and delicately.
Rhythmical and full of emotions.
Sensational and sad at times.
Powerful half way through his piece.
The deaf would be cured if they heard.
He’s avoiding the final note
And he repeats the chorus again.
I am full of life within his hands.
And he reaches the last part
And I dread his fingers leaving mine.
Now he stands to give a bow,
But finishes with a kiss on my fall.