The Old Piano, The Old Angel

Do angels have wings?
Do angels even exist?
Because in the humming child’s past,
there was an angel, now covered in dust.

Softly, in the dimly lit room,
the angel was singing to me.
Outside was a high, full moon,
and the light shines in,
as her song sets us free

Long after the old Sunday evening,
and absent a moonlight sonata’s harmony,
music still lingers,
with the angel’s long fingers.

A beautiful, so beautiful voice,
under a winter sky rejoice.
The piano’s tingling heartstrings,
are the old angel’s wings.