Another poem, inspired by a story idea I haven't been able to use yet.
Fingers caress ivory keys,
smelling of ink, of herbal teas.
Skirts whisper against faded floorboards,
where thousands of fears,
and silent tears were poured.
She slips onto the ancient bench,
braving the memories that entrench.
Weaving each note like a thread,
she hides a beloved story,
a tremor in her heart unsaid.
Somber melodies rise and give voice,
to the ache, to the sorrow
that helps her rejoice.
The piano stands proud
and with class, guards the heart of a silent
A fragile smile surfaces,
lifted by a hope that reverses
all of her shattered dreams,
and chases away
all of the dark one's schemes.
Wrists lift for an extra beat,
giving pause for a phrase complete.
Fingers tie each thread in a chord,
it hovers over her and the piano,
the piano so dearly adored.