.broken fingers

.i played the piano once sitting in the den
.the day of St. Patrick’s curse
.i have been erased

.i let my fingers run once more
.through the air in front of my view
.but i see; they have become lumps
.inert twigs making no sound

.i close my eyes
.for i have been ceased by the light
.my dreadful mind has let me die

.so my broken fingers
.i pound them at the keys
.trying to make you feel
.the symphonies unkind

.jacob g
.04 .entry 0413