rough-please help!

When I grow old

I want to be a concert hall

Always carrying music

filling my insides

bouncing out

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.

Still-

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!