The Jazz Pianist
Notes.
Not like the ones
made of trees.
Floats.
across the air,
through the keys.
Jazz Pianists' fingers tell no lies,
traveling through the
White and Black Sky.
My mind walks
the scales of Jazz,
Amazed at all
the wonders it has.
Jazz improv
Is a dead language
alive and well.
A phoenix that
never looks the same;
Engulfed in its fiery wings,
my fingers must play on,
Until my soul can sing.
To fly among the clouds,
In the musical expanse:
Challenge oneself,
take a chance.
Jazz is life
on 88 keys.
Countless options;
a melodic trapeze.
Perfection is not important.
Nor are mistakes.
What does matter
is choices I make.
In my jazz.