It rests;
old,
chipped,
cold
dried from the wind.
dark,
patient
once it had the song of a lark.
Fine,
gentle,
something that can stop time.
Dusty,
yet the melody it hold is heavenly.
It's been up there
for many years now.
Waiting patiently,
for someone to play it delicately.
For someone to smooth out its ivory keys;
for someone to notice. It cries; please.
For someone to press its keys ever so gently,
to create a sound that is only imaginary.
For someone to look beyond its physical features,
for someone to soothe it with ones fingers.
For someone to give it the love it needs;
for someone to play it with strong, steady beats.
All if asks for is a person,
a talented and caring person.
One who will take the time
to make a grand sound,
to make it shine.
To put those old ivory keys
back to work,
instead of being covered all in dirt.

The old piano sits and waits
for the perfect person
who will make a sound
that will open Heaven's Gates.