The piano sits in a corner, collecting dust I avoid eye contact with it on most days It's a reminder of a time I used to play ("Music is your thing!") a reminder of a dream I left halfway something which used to bring me so much joy now makes me think of my inadequacies of all the jazz I can't play But today as I despair into the deepening night I look to it for comfort and it stands there, just like it has all these years I sit down and run my fingers over the keys and I confess I rage and mellow and battle and my stiff fingers trip and slip but I play, and play, and play and I am rescued all over again
Music is my thing,
it always has been.
