It's Still Life

The Piano Man

His fingers hammered those keys.
It was a noise like thin bones rattling,
that sound of ivory tunes.
It’s how bitter sorrow might sound,
and his flour-white skin
stretched drum-tight on his hand, a doff
and coughing rhythm
as his fingers tapped his signature songs.
He died in a dance-hall,
had a premonition of his death,
and it shattered his nerves,
so he played, and he played, because music,
everyone said, was deep in his soul.
So he played that piano, obsessed;
‘cause to stop, he might be forever possessed.

©️Misky 2016