No Piano With Willful Hands

{Note: I'm feeling a driving need to take up the piano again, but I stare at it sometimes, feeling bereft. Music courses through veins that no longer have a chasm to suit their zeal, empty ventricles that once thrummed with life and now have no notes in their sweet network- and, not to sound depressing, but I just miss the sweet physical sounds. Pianos seem to find themselves in the hands of every protagonist that I create, and something is missing without this talent. I need to pick up some practice sheet music somewhere and set a locked time for myself to practice.} 

~ No Piano With Willful Hands ~

Music runs through empty chasms,

veins that live in empty silence,

the flood of sweetness I created,

now lives not in this world of silence,

world of gravel, once of sea and grace-

there is no place for one so tender,

nor soul to fill my poor tankard,

no music flutters in this strange coldness,

my heart is pining, thickly frigid,

I could not live among the many,

without hearing those wild songs beat.

I long to run in grassy meadows,

those plains where sheeps are hence home-bound,

I want to throw my arms out haply,

no rhyme nor reason, to be found.

My will's to welcome those birds singing,

I wish to dance, where all may bound . . .

but in the end, I sit here sadly,

for there is no music no song to crack-

this utter silence,

this wily breast of willful playing,

that now rests empty, soul-cracked shell,

no flowers growing in my playground . . .

where once . . .

I felt so human, nature lived, and love swam freely,

no freedom to let myself break free,

in unleashed passion . . .

now, they all lay down to graze,

wholly placid,

quiet

and forever silent ~