in the corner, under an old painting of ‘The Last Supper’
she sits, perched upon a rickety piano bench.
a baby grand in front of her, desperately out of tune,
fingers caressing the keys, enticing the notes of ‘Amazing Grace.’
 
she played it alone, reminiscing the times her soul was filled
with love. it felt warm, it felt safe, even though not in tune.
she knew it was lacking in accordance
yet she played…and she cried.
 
she, like her piano, was in need of gentle care.
love, in its blindness, led her too often to companions
who were deaf to the melody of her heart.
her fingers only found warmth on the ebony, and the ivory.
 
her bones were brittle, her heart beyond repair,
but she would play her music,
and the moon would still rise
to bring light to the encroaching darkness.