His fingers crooked and full of arthritis,
Hovering the keys of his quiet piano.
He remembers the days as an artist,
But now his mind runs just too slow.
His empty gaze across the barren stage
He can still hear the music in his heart
Mumbling a curse at his crippling age
Unable to push a key to make the music start
Standing ovations are in the past
No more notes to make them sing
He knew that it would not always last
But never envisioned this suffering.
Jean François Lamothe
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-pianist/
