The Piano

Amidst the warm mid-summer sun,
a piano’s angelic melody sweep the plains.
It’s harmonies sparkling and sustained; lingering air is played.

Its true passion is alluring,
begs for something to sustain its voice
vibrant or dark brooding, is the choice which is to be made.

Yet when keys are left alone,
not played with pleasing compassion,
the tune contains a hammering; a depressing spell of broken passion.

And in the silence when it does not speak,
there is no devotion or spirit wings,
but only an old weathered piano; time passed has rusted her springs.

As the ominous storm clouds bury the sky,
a piano’s silence fills the electric air;
a time worn relic, out-dated and obsolete.

Beneath it’s hardwood shell,
a longing prayer for a single note.
A deep vibrating rage against the solid steel strings, and a demand for the love that never was.