Polished black mahogany wood,
Made the masterpiece as it should.
High honor it'd be if I could
Sit there and produce something good.
White and black tint the many keys,
Producing sounds from strings with ease.
This instrument was meant to please
The ears with its nice melodies.
I approach, and I sit right down
On the stool held firmly aground.
But hesitating with a frown;
I haven't yet produced such sound.
I look upon it longingly,
Yet I know the reality:
The piano is a beauty;
The time just hasn't come for me.
P.S: This was written in the spur of the moment, spouting from my random thoughts. I have a piano, and I don't think this poem applies to me; nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed it! :D
No comments:
Post a Comment