The keys have never lied to me;
They really only sing
Echoed notes to my favor:
Utmost passion, pain, pining.
Four worn walls of floral
Patterns once were vibrant.
Torn and tattered blossoms of
Pastels in alignment.
There is a view of the terrace,
But my song cannot be free.
The sill is chipped and window locked,
Sun’s outline halos, mockery.
My hands don’t shake across my board
Nor tremble ruined red lacquered.
Composing now my newest start
Arranging how I want to feel and
Fill my place with hopeless heart.
Serenade my soul, please,
Even with my mistruck keys.
The shadows grow so long here,
Dear, they always frighten me.
Dark hair turned amber gold,
Iridescent,
So I’m told.
But I’ve only love for which I cannot hold.
I do not play with another,
Lest they feel the need.
No one else can play the same;
My jumbled notes? Your misread.
Regardless of me all,
The dust collects around.
Yet shimmering like diamonds
As they catch the sunlit crown.
But silently they fall away,
Hiding faded footsteps where no one stayed.
And so I no longer wait for them;
Press the pedal yet again.
Find their portraits on the porch—
Mourning sound my keys had then.
I see you’ve gotten the old brass doorknob to finally let you in,
But you’ve disturbed the patterns on the water-damage within.
Come and sit beside me now on this wooden bench
Creaking gently through my chamber with no chance for French
Exit as you’ve entered now.
The warm light
Cascades on my
Ivory.
Touch on me your melody.
It may not ring as it once did,
But I shall share it as we wish.
This started as a non-rhyming poem, but I’m too beginner to feel comfortable without a rhyme scheme. I imagined a French style room almost bare, with an old piano.
