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Indents

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An old piano sits by itself
the keys yellowed
the strings unused.
Oh, the music it once had played;
drifting through
the now torn curtains
made of once-white lace.
Beauty was in-tune:
happy, sad, meloncholy;
All was felt on this piano,
all was heard from this piano.
The indentions of the keys
tell a story,
of how the player
was played.


The room was bright;
the wine was plenty.
Everything was light;
everything was bouncy.
The song she played
was of a horse
trotting by a willow tree.
People gathered 'round
and remarked about
how descriptive her music was,
how descriptive her soul was.

She ran her fingers down the lace
her favorite lace,
the lace she made
with her old worn hands,
with the same hands
that played the new piano.

She walked into the room-
that dreadful room-
and found the Note.
"Be back soon," is what it said,
intentions of comming back
were not in his head.
She cried that night,
and then the next.

After that,
she played her new piano
until indentions
riddled the keys.





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