Eighty eight keys, a sea of black and white,
A Masterpiece in the works he must needs get it right,
Think, create, scheme, compose and write,
But perhaps a rest for now, it doesn’t have to be tonight.
Endless possibilities, Innumerable combinations,
A symphony of yet unknown sensations,
Soon yes, soon he’ll find that subtle inspiration,
But, maybe food to fuel the thoughtful art creation.
It’s been two weeks since that first melody arrived,
Now he’s lost a little passion, no longer feels the drive,
Now the harmony has diminished, doesn’t seem to jive,
Good things take time, surely tomorrow it’ll come alive.
Scores of crinkled sheet music now scattered on the floor,
Six months passed, the young man needs the perfect score,
Perhaps he’ll add a measure or maybe not another more,
Alas, the lullaby of night beckons, and He cannot ignore.
The Years abandoned him as though he just stood still,
His eyes have dimmed, his Hair is grey, his bones are ill,
Time jots its signature in his wrinkles, for the thrill,
The beats per measure slowing now, no more time to kill.
Fragile, weak he runs his bridle fingers through the dust,
His ol’ friend’s strings and dampers filled with heavy rust,
Sticky pedals, worn out keys, no more pretty tunes to trust,
Another crescendo perhaps, finish his piece, He must!
No more notes, not quarter, half, nor eighth, or whole,
The vibrato is gone, he never reached his musical goal,
A life of empty measures, scores unwritten took its toll,
Never got His timing right to pen the song from His soul.
