You play my heart like a harpsichord,
Making me feel things that
I never wanted to feel.

They say that you're a player,
But I'd have to disagree.
I have a sneaking suspicion that
You're actually a puppeteer,
Because I can't move my limbs
When you're not around.

C, c, d -
Clair de Lune in C minor.
Otherwise known as the sound of
The buffoon shedding tears.
When the moonlight comes, I ponder.
Only then, in that moment, do I doubt.

Are your glass eyes empty?
I thought for sure that they sparkled with light.
But even if that was my mind's reflection
I still want you.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                   Tin Ears in the Hands of an Angry God

                       -as Jonathan Edwards did not yell

If You are good and kind and loving, O Lord
Then why do You permit
                                                 The harpsichord?

Hollowed within the frozen finger tips,
as each stroke of the key vibrates a crisp C.

The piano home key that resonates the beginning,
and the place of birth of most classical music.

Then the C chord echoed with E and G,
while the journey read like a journal.

So it stood as the progression of time,
like the life force intertwined with each notes.

Where does your hand take you to the next step of life,
as you create the next stroke of your dream song.

Hallowed within the frozen finger tips,
and the final song is the end of life.

Make your perfection of music,
as if you can no longer play a next tune.