Eighty Eight Keys to Heaven


Fingers flying over the keys.
Black, white, sharp, flat.
Complex chords. Driving melodies.
Jazz pulsing through my brain.

The room is small. Dark. Dingy.
The crowd small. Talking more than listening.
But this music is my love. My mistress. My siren song.
And I must play.

Success is elusive.
Relationships are fleeting.
Demons befall me.
Dreams fade away.

But now I'm feeling the beat.
Creating my sound.
Basking in my own euphoria.
For this is my life.
As it also was my death.

To Ted
Ashford (2)
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