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.
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