I am a shiny gold mass of tubes

My keys and mouth are a bright silver

I am old and well used

Once pristine, I am now dented and have discolored patches

When you look into my bell your image is morphed and distorted

You just assume this is the truth

You become used to seeing your face stretched and uneven, curving along my sides

Your fingers appear much bigger when you play me

Long, but not slender, they skillfully go back and forth as I emit my song

At the end of the session

you shut me in my case

and move on

You don’t forget what you see though

I may be gone

but you always remember

the warped figure

You remember

how your large fingers stumbled

How messy your playing was

You remember

how sickly your face looked due to my colors and curves

When you go to bed you forget about your thoughts

But when you take me out to play

the cycle begins again