Word Song

The keyboard clacking makes its sounds,
Its subtle tones, its dexterous rounds –
Piano of another form,
Its own played melodies new-born
With every sentence, every word,
Every letter, read so heard,
And these together bringing thoughts
That fly through air, untie its knots –
Some stinging sharp in quiet tones,
Some staccato, some deep-yearned moans,
But all forming as one their score
Of prose or poem, fact or lore –
Making the piece that is the whole,
That is the storied-music soul.

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