Thirteen

A piano man with tender eyes,
Black and white, the skin of a ghost.
Still he stands quite quaint in size,
But made of nothing more than skin and bones.
A way with notes and a way with words,
The keys falling beneath his fingers candidly,
Releasing, like venom, a supple ambiance,
Injecting into me a perverted certainty,
The feeling, my rapture, time still for a moment,
And I reach out my hand, towards colors and hold them,
But through gaps, slightest spaces of the in between,
Seepage, a loss of the lesser by my incapability

I had a wish he was a piano man with gentle hands,
Or at least, had he obtained compassion, a heart.
I had a wish, I shared with others,
of a man whose piano was played,
But a man who spun yarn, I found instead—
And a thousand lies rest on his wheel,
A thousand hearts gush under his heel,
A thousand tongues waiting to be spun,
The thousand souls that light our sight o’er by the sun.

Oh, how he had,
what he had,
a thousand times further—
how he left me empty handed,
while his remained “burdened,”
But still my hands,
Ha, how empty they remain though promises were promised,
Or were they lies established?