The floor is like a piano,

tiles rich with history awakened

by the sound of jovial footsteps.

I’ve told myself countless times,

“Avoid the floor bare.”

But I cannot resist the frigid touch against

my heel.

Tales are etched over the floor,

playing a piano’s archaic melody.

Like ballet, I created an ancient fable

that only I hold the key to. Each step 

I take, each melody it sings, I dance

to the serenity of the open room.

The piano strings its stories, the way

my arches plant themselves on the tiles. 

It echoes the strings of Apollo's harp, 

composing a reflecting chill against

the soles of my feet. Step by step I

rephrase a nostalgic longing,

expressing deep yearn for a distant memory.

Instruments are canvases, the floor is a stage.

It is a collection of tiles that pave a path down memory lane

in nothing but a harmonious chorus.