Black Bench

I remember you most
on a black bench,
fingers on the keys,
trying to play as passionately
as you wanted to be,
as you were,
for you held your wild heart
uncertainly.
You knew not how
to hold it properly.

But all I could hear
was you banging too hard
on the keys.
Trying to make feeling
out of music.
You wanted your twisted heart
to be romantic,
to be more than you thought,
to be something
you could be proud of.

Love can not be
coerced
or persuaded.

But all you could see
when you looked inside
was lechery,
control,
lying,
arugments,
and a reasoning that defied
the very passion you wished
to instil,
and a belief that your love
was either not enough
or always
unrequited.
Even now,
years from the time
that you banged on the piano
for me,
I imagine you’re still there,
struggling to get some form
of admirable music
from your clumsy fingers.
Trying to find the glory
to your fury–
the kind that makes it
beautiful indignation.

But I wonder
if all you see still
is evil.

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