Widow Pianist
Two hours before existence
He struck mindlessly
Lashing out, trying blindly
With ears bolted
From the contoured melody
And lips busy
In a genocide
A banshee fritters away
With the pressing of
His stale scrawny fingers
In a somnolent levity
Teeming with apprehension
And siphoned of tranquility
I am not a widow pianist.
How can I endure this?
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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