Life Key

These cold, black keys have no life of their own.

We both know they’re sick of hanging round in the dark.

Come on, they say,  Hit me, Right here.


The tips of my fingers lay themselves out and settle in the groves.


It’s as though they’ve never been away

And the


from the idea

becomes words

and I know this is the place.

The time may not be right but I don’t care.

This is the place

and the ideas

will not wait.


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