The Piano Player

Moonbeams stream
Through dusty window panes
Gleam on ebony and ivory keys
Polished by sweat and tears

Keys of black and white
Shimmer in soft moonlight
Fingers sculptured for music
Flow across them

Each bit of wood
Each bit of bone
Compressed, depressed
In the order of the tune

Though his mind
Has forgotten
Fingers worn by time
Half remember
The naked rhythm
Half remember
Who he was

He looks backward
Through Galileo’s glass
At who he use to be

A young man
Who owned the world
Who loved the homage paid
After each flawless performance

Fingers, manicured, perfect
Flow without effort
Across ebony, ivory keys

Keys of black and white
Gleam in soft candlelight
Women sigh and surrender
Tossed aside when
The music’s done

The glass dims
Time flows
Over the waterfall
Of too many
Forgotten years
Yet still the player plays
Though the piano
Is as out of tune
As he his

Memories of his muse
Dancing in the starlight
Still seduce him
With thoughts of glory

He rises, gaunt, broken
Smiles at the applause
From the audience
Who have been enthralled
By his perfection

Reflections of them fade
To be replaced by his own
Tears of bitterness fall
By this intrusion of reality

He smiles at the image aged
Far beyond his understanding
Hairless head gleams
As moonbeams stream
Through dusty window panes