Tinnitus

Tinnitus

These hands that once caressed the keys,
creating music with delight,
How sad that time deforms my skill,
a victim of grey cells’ slow decay.
The treble slips, the bass is at odds
as wrong notes crash in jarring chords;
unwanted pauses pain the ear.

Where is the music of younger days?
Dumb machines can’t still this need.
Although the music is not dead,
it lives, an i-Pod,  in my head.

© Vivienne Blake