Mar 16, 2011

The Untapped Keys : (A Sonnet)

At dawn, the piano trotted- it’s clef reposed
melancholies in notes, in known stanzas.
It played octaves of weak fruition, but stored
cryptic genii cased in remote dogmas:

omitted keys- within hidden retreats,
prospects for flair: contained, but used rarely
snubbed recesses and opportune defeats,
haplessly lie frozen, but perfectly  

virginal, in white and untainted ebony.
Fingers ending in garbed choices, perchance
for kin or notational amity,
loving notes in a life-long, feigned romance.

So, touch those keys, veiled in joyous cadence,

to end grief housed in your ambivalence.

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