Harmonics of life.

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.

Christopher Thompson

Copyright 2019 all rights reserved.

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