The fingers wander back over the familiar keys
as I finger through these old melodies
rediscover parts of myself,
meander through all those lives I’ve lived.
And I wonder if it’s not too late
to resurrect these skeleton hands
send them scrambling once more over
those vivos and vivaces, like insects,
let them feed off this corpse of mine.
And even if I’ve let this passion burn to ash,
might not the resulting phoenix be even more beautiful?


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