Piano
Touched by your goodness,
I am like that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow heaved through an open window.
And you might think by this I mean I’m broken or abandoned, or unloved.
Truth is, I don’t know exactly what I am,
Any more than the wreckage in the alley knows it’s a piano,
filling with trash and yellow leaves.
I am like that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow heaved through an open window.
And you might think by this I mean I’m broken or abandoned, or unloved.
Truth is, I don’t know exactly what I am,
Any more than the wreckage in the alley knows it’s a piano,
filling with trash and yellow leaves.
Maybe I’m all that’s left of what I was.
But touching me, I know, you are the good
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.
But touching me, I know, you are the good
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.
What would you call that feeling when the wood,
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?
-Thorn♥
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?
-Patrick Phillips
-Thorn♥
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