Inspired by Watching Frank Glazer Rehearse
When I grow old
I want to be a concert hall
Always carrying music
filling my insides
of the windows of my soul.
My eyes will begin
to argue with my brain
and the two will grow slowly estranged
My ears will forget high pitches
lose their grasp on distant sounds
My voice will grow heavy
laden down with years of use
staggering slowly under the weight.
As long as my hands remain nimble
As long as my fingers can still move the keys
The music will spill out of my soul and cry out-
I am here!
I am alive!