Fingers Implore,
by Odin Roark

As I touch you,
speak to me of white’s simplicity,
of black’s intent to clarify a minor key’s necessity.

Help these tendrils find root
among the lilies of your limitless mountains.

I am of but bone, muscle, and skin,
limbering,
reaching,
touching
whatever returns a tone of discovery.

Will such contact upon fulcrum’s steps
render the sound and image of harmonious reward,
or will my fingers be running arpeggios of escape,
mortal anima’s anguish,
never to know the concordance
of a chord’s resolve?

Alas

My piano,
my confessional,
wherein truth is but atonal explorations
between mind and spirit,
begging admittance to the light,
where pictures start as an outline,
drawing in melody as a distant echo.

Enlightenment…

Tells me,
there are chambers of peace
sheltered among your lessons,
beyond the somnambulance
where awakening is reserved for audiences only.