The Pianist


I wrote this sometime last year. It is about how music is much like life, temporary, beautiful and rich in experience.


The ivories awaited him

He sat in solitude,

Eyes shut,


No sound,



His frail body arched forward,

Feet firm on the floor

Face accumulative of wrinkles,

Arms dangling in stillness,

Hands poised and ready



One note sounded

Then another,

He escaped,

Hymns echoed through the abbey,

Startling steps pounded slowly,



Rapid passages chased each other,

Giggles rubbed against chatter,

Waves lapped in laugher,

Birds jubilate in vigor,

Flying freely and discovering,



Loud whispers swell in the forest,

Impudent thoughts resonate through the woods,

Intimacy in its infancy,

Coupled with crimes of persuasion

Complications in communication,



Two flames tangoed to the coloured sounds,

Consuming each other’s warmth

Twisting to become singular,

Mutually moving,

Tenderly clutching, embracing in bliss,

Jovial tones fill the atmosphere



The sun kissed the sea,

Tranquillity nested in the air,

Twilight came and darkened the surrounds,

Shadows hauntingly departed,

Calm rested through the shoreline,



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