Piano
The ivory keys are chipped and bruised,
The pedals beneath my feat need oil,
The evidence of years of abuse,
Are apparent by some dreamers’ toil.
The wood has lost most of its varnish,
The legs themselves are covered in dust,
It sat so long it became tarnished,
It’s as if the wood itself can rust.
Each key plays a note we shouldn’t hear,
Though, in its early years it was tuned,
And love will never be heard so clear,
As it was below that summer’s moon.
When I played it, I remembered my first true love and cried.
O, for thine piano’s beauty that cannot be denied.
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