Ode to the Pianist

 

 

 

            Tortured souls are found in every

Façade of a frown,

Until the wake up call is sound!

 

 

 

When cradling the blade within the hand,

When the revolver has just the one round,

When the paracetomol seeks a hundred to swallow,

And the scag is loaded to fade;

     Will then they know that you in your honesty,

     Were the gentile of a gift?

 

 

 

            For all the impasse of Man’s

Ungainly conflicts and dispassionate affair,

For all the sorrow these children seemingly

Dishonest of passion impart,

For all this confusion and sad salutation,

For all the cacophony of noise made to

Fade the truest of light;

     A six billion of soloist say

Nothing but everything,

While the pianist no longer

Calls time.

 

 

 

            So many people,

So many people claiming victory alone,

So many telling tales of woe where none

To be found,

            So many people and not one to understand,

The lonely six billion; for the one

That they hailed stayed silent,

Silent on Earth.

 

 

 

            Hey ole man,

Sitting there with Coniston to your back,

You must wonder with longing did You

Ever get it right?

This Earth with its thunder,

Was it made just for bidding in fight?

Sitting there silent weary and tiresome of Sun,

You must be welling whilst dwelling;

     Why is it these people seek nothing

But bettering each other,

A heckling and bickering,

Not happy with meanings on life.

 

 

 

Six billion people, not one in time,

Six billion people, seeking the pianist to back,

Six billion people, who beg for you love,

Six billion people, still flying the doves.  

 

 

 

Michael J Waite 20^th October 2009