I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

some questions

why a broken cage?

why the dreams that soar

like swallows in purple skies?

why those promises from an evening sun

that turns to orange and to gold?

why those hands that cannot stay?

why a flesh that burns to embers

and a glowing red?

why a heart that trusts and smarts

and waits?