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The Pianist,
A docile predator,
With soothing claws,
On his prey; coloured like good and evil.
Far from the realm of sanity,
He thumbs with maddening strain,
The very citadel of his making
While lost in some dispatterned symphonies
Conjoined by some mystic,
Crescendos and diminuendos,
As though he were drunk.
And like a deceased “mestic” bird
With a loosed neck,
He increases and decreases in a
psychotic trend.
Hmmm……
He is unlike you and me
But a Pianist
