Burn Up the Keys

Fingers aching to melt the keys Piano lying under the weight of my soul Composition scratched, enigmatic release A pillow to cushion the world and it's blows Mozart alive in the pulse in my wrist Chopin in nocturnes sings me to sleep Liszt, Clementi, and Beethoven too shoulder the weight of my soul on the move You'd call me eccentric if I told you the truth- These keys are the link to my fountain of youth They bring me back home to 14th street in summer Practicing under the eyes of my mother Watching the trees sway out the living room window Feeling the music like a youth, only bigger Holding the memory of notes like dear friends Nervous performer from the start to the end And now, mundane life wrenches me from the past I barely brush dust from the keys and collapse My wrists ache from working without any fruits And you'd call me eccentric if I told you the truth- For right at the moment I leave her behind I pine for the freedom, enigmatic release I can't get the music of Bach from my mind As my fingers are itching to burn up the keys...