Pianist !

This piece is called the pianist, I thought of this while playing my new electric piano and I guess as poets we feel art through everything we touch, which is quite a beautiful gift. I stand by myself and believe that we are all given different gifts, some are given art as expression some are granted studies as an expression, some are given other things. Art is never learnt, you are born with it, then only then can it develop further.

So here it is : the pianist

The crouched figure, demented.
Alternating, tapping back and forth,
dancing in a sea of black and ivory.
Tormented endlessly by relishes that adorn the page.

The defining moments, the depressed descents
of each glorious aria. Beautiful and melodic,
breaking the stale air, splits and passing over
the heads of the faceless audience in the dark.

O, Unnatural monster!
Arched over the horror of furniture.
Curves unknown to man.
Brandishing an arsenal
that haunts the soul, and it shreds the heart
hammering, reverberating
left to right
a hypnotic dream that possesses.

The fingers touch the cold keys
giving life to the dead wood.
Giving music a tangible touch.
Feelings transpire through
a violent mood swing,
from soothing to suicidal.