The Pianist

 

As things begin to slip,

They drip around the sides

And glide into places almost forgotten.

 

The grand piano breaks

Sound shakes the top of the roof,

The only proof needed that plans are rotten.

 

When the sound falls away

It sways and disappears

Into the fear of potential regret.

 

Still lingering noises

Fades to voices of the past

At last finding themselves outside the fret.

 

The instrument somehow landed higher

To be admired farther up than it’s old fit--

With grit it refused to forget but urged the past to rust.

 

After months of making wrinkles,

Sprinkling them all over my future face

God waits with the piano, playing a song of trust.

 

The song sings me to sleep;

What God sowed, He lets me reap.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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