The Piano

Listen to it, for it doesn't make much noise, it has been lying this way for years. Some people could find it possible to reflect their own emotions , but others consider it a dumb piece of junk. Yet, you have got to listen to it, roll your fingers over its checkered body, press it gently as you swerve from one end to another, and there it goes, blaring out tunes for you, gentle melody, lilting and moving to and fro as the undulating plains. Then it takes your heart, caresses it and lifts it up in the air, taking its leap it throws away those swaying , scudding clouds that would appear to have forgotten their own ways. Do you wish to to be forgotten too? You can never say, when it was that you went out of the emotion, or feeling. The swing of your heart has moved you from one corner of human darkness to another, and you begin wavering in it. Darkness!

And then you come out of it, look around, the piece had been as junk, and as clunky as it were possible. The place has worn down all of its beauty and it reflects nothing. It rebounds, retracts and pushes back. The end-game becomes the start -game.

Quietude has been overtaken now. Servitude rules the roost. You lament at being human and the piano's lament reflects through you.