October: Lost Keys

the piano

Closer to the edge, the hammers weep and moan, as the ivory tusks crack and grind their arthritic digits, not the sounds of their youth, yearning to transcend their fallen notes, held in stasis, waiting for an intimate touch to scale their breadth, casting out one last song, such a beautiful end, as the winds pick up the tune, we can still hear it from time to time, if we listen, as the wind brushing passed the shivering trees, ruffling the trumpets, carrying them off to be with the ground.

– Josh Fleming

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