I am at the edge of the piano
The dark edge of the encasement.
I linger at the tough end of the wedge
And hint in my tiny voice
Of my enlightenment.
This is in stark contrast
To the woodland of youth.
The long felled concrete jungle
Where I cut my health.
Nothing is black and white
Not least because of the keys
Or the breadth of the bridge;
The arch of the races.
My hands are becomming free
Of the entanglement of the past.
My touch is like that of the midwife.
I hold in my arms the true length
Of my strings.
Touching the notes with pencil accuracy
And I fret my way in a melodious search
For Art and Sound
And the Harmonics of Life.
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