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.