I love listening to the exquisite, beautiful music of Max Richter. Somehow this track inspired this poem:
the piano
down in the hall, we link arms.
our stories are abridged from
our own terrors, drawn in wavy lines -
well trod labyrinths, the paths worn bare.
notes from the old piano are soft,
stained mustard with light and its own odd history.
we hold together because the ache
becomes less, and because all we have is each other.
No comments:
Post a Comment