[Can you tell I’m enjoying these? I might do them all week. Because stress sucks.]
One and two and three and four
And fingers dance across the keys
Impossibly fast, achingly slow
And a picture is painted of a time
When there were flowers at every meal
Roses, daisies, forget-me-nots
And the fragrance would be the first thing
And the last thing,
So perfect that the children would, when they went away to school,
Ask what was wrong,
Never able to place it.
They pass notes as the music plays,
But the trembling of the beaten strings knows
All
They forget, as they grow,
They forget the rose garden,
They forget what it is in the grand halls of sunlight and fountains
What it is to be free
Their hands haven’t touch the piano in years
They have more important matters to attend to
Because the opera is the here and now,
An avalanche of voices that scream at the damned
And if they could have just a single bloom
With their gin and tonic
That would be some blessing
But everything is rotted
And the piano is on fire
They are gone, their memories lingering like music in the last seconds of –
bohemian.on.rye 