The piano breaks the silence of the room.
As I play my fingers, broken and crooked,
sear with pain, and look mundane,
as I turn my flesh and bone into song.

I want to fill the whole room with my music.
The melody humming and sweet.
My arms are gone, my legs are numb.
There is a rattle, my fingers on the keys.
I might be pale, and losing all my details,
but the music must end up complete.

The room is now full of my music.
Chiming and buzzing through free space.
I sing along without the cords to make song,
just bones, there is no sound I can make.
But at least my song is filled with heart,
and now I can call it complete.

Now that the room has found music
I can begin to make a new song.
But when I play, the notes crumble and decay.
For I have nothing to give, it's all in the song
which sings and glides through audiences ears,
and taunts me with the unavoidable fact,
I am no longer complete.

© Robert Taylor