I dreamt I could play the piano.
Melodies, symphonies pouring outta me.
Then I woke up to be dumb & forgetful.
A sufferer of bouts of poetry.
Maybe something still won't flow.
All stops & starts inside my head.
Wishing for the confidence to be whole.
Not quite sure if it will be safe & sane.
I wish I could play the piano.
And sing for the heart-aching souls.
Can't help but reject the sentimental.
"It's not original, all played out & sold."
 What good is a piano made outta wood.
Taunt strings ready to strike sounds hollow.
Still I play the piano with scores old.
Something about them helplessly beautiful.
It's to be played when truly alone.
Someone overhears, it dies & be reborn.
When the keys pressed it's the ultimate quiet.
Under the cover hides thunders & hurricanes.
All the players grudgingly dwelled then left.
Maybe next life I will have the steady hands.  

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