The Old Piano

He never noticed the old piano,
With the dusty firm finish,
He never noticed the rotting wood, and the coat of white that lay upon it
The legs where week,
Filled with holes.
Each key emitted a worse sound than the next,
Each domino falling, without proper context,
The boy wished he could play a song.
He needed a song.
His features were visable from scraps of light gathered from a crack in the curtains
his slendor body,
His blue eyes,
His stiff posture.
He was always mistaken for being cold.
Now he was.
The feeling of loss and disorientation
Overwealmed him
And once again,
The 16 boy dropped to the floor.
He had never noticed the Old Piano
Untill it spoke to him

“Is there more than just a shallow coat of skin upon a mortal face? It robs the light of a dimming, flickering sound.
It pulls a doleful draft from beneath this torrid ground.”

A tear trickles down the boys face
A fist appears in an agitated state
A forgotten memory.
At this: our Venus seems perplexed.

“A heart may love.
What of a symphony?
Radiant harmony, burrowing tenor,
A sonance so elegant it’s velocity breathes.
A symphony can love.
If the strings of a violin can act as selfish human veins,
Carrying this red wine like a selfless burden.
Surely a melody can love.
As rain is a metronome pouring out from above
As hearts are bass-drums to a snare in the lungs
Snow is but a white harp
Every flake, a precious angel,
Every sound, another gem
Adorned across a thread
On a lover’s neck.
Sound is affection.
Sound is love.
Sound is a warm fire on a chill December night
As the atmosphere swoons with melody, the lovers hold tight.
Sound is the voice you long to hear.
The voice that envelops your senses
And numbs all that is alien from
A lover’s ear.”

Spasmodically, with rage, the boy returns:

“If sound is love, then I am a deaf man,
love struck my heart and dried the life from my veins,
love is a weapon, love is a gun,
love is the dark side in everyone,
answer me this, O wise one,
If love is sound and sound is love, why don’t I twist it around?
Sound is the wailing of a torn heart,
Yearing for someone.
Sound is the fear in thunder,
Spitting forth energy and anger.
Love is useless, Love leaves words unspoken,
For love never ends without something broken”

And at that moment,
The old piano collapsed.

The Old Piano


Joined August 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

it’s a poem.

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