The poem I have written is a metaphor for art (of any kind), and specifically about how much effort and passion goes into curating pieces of music, literature etc. and how easily/quickly we as people discard and forget the works of others or our own once we find something we deem better. (P.S The blood on the piano is meant to show the sheer effort put into the previously performed song, due to the very fervent and fast motions of the composer it caused their fingers to bleed and leave stains the piano. Also I've tried to use structure in my poem in order to make the piece mildly resemble the keys of a piano so I'm sorry if its hard to pick up on)