Bryan Deakin

Scottish Poet / Blogger / Community Activist

Piano Keys

The blood drips,
From the piano keys.
His hand holds the thorns,
From the rose she once owned.

His grip tightens,
More blood falls,
He does not flinch,
No emotions at all.

The blood now hits the floor,
A pool has formed,
Around his souls,
No movement at all.

Lost all emotions,
The will to move,
No more sorrow,
No life at all.

A lantern moves in the distance,
As lightning strikes outside,
Something is stirring,
Maybe a raven in the hall.


Some time passes,
He looks around,
Wipes a tear from his eye,
In death he falls.

© 2012-2016

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