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The Keys
October 30, 2014
My hands aren't fully grown,
My fingers can't reach a full octave,
These lines and symbols
Move like they are being swept
From their locations by a tornado.
But still,
I move extra cautiously,
Crawling from one note to the next,
Deciphering whether to allow myself the freedom
To jump, to lean, to turn, or to fall.
I graze across the white as pearl bars,
And trek to the think black borders as needed.
It is unbelievable,
The voyage those innocent fingers experience
In such little time.
© Anonymous
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