The Piano is Black


The piano is black.
White are its keys.
My fingertips kiss each one, a tease,
A touch on the high notes, a tickle, a taste –
A whisper of starlight, gone without trace.
A glimmer, a hint, a breath over me,
Washing like water, feelings so free.
Suddenly, the lights begin to dim
A beat is formed of meager whim.
It slithers ‘cross the page, but slow –
Murderous melodies have stayed for the show.
It changes again to a path newly formed,
The highway to anger and hatred, forlorn.
Things start to quicken, heart starts to pound
to the unstable rhythm that’s running abound.
Stomping on pedals, suck in a breath,
Remember the beginning and feel through the rest.
Banging out chords, keep up the pace
I throw the bench back, hair falls in my face –
Think of the times, revive all your strifes
Resurrect all your woes, what went wrong in your life –
Put ’em in a blender, vomit them out
Onto the page, what I play about.
My fingers now tremble, notes become sparse
The darkness grows blacker, we weep for our scars.
All colors and sizes are wounds day to day
But all are alike, for we all feel the pain.
My fingers have stopped. Know the music has won
‘Cause I’ve played the piano.
And now I am done.


Mavis Knightley


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