The Jazz Pianist


Not like the ones

made of trees.



across the air,

through the keys.


Jazz Pianists' fingers tell no lies,

traveling through the

White and Black Sky.


My mind walks 

the scales of Jazz,

Amazed at all

the wonders it has.


Jazz improv

Is a dead language

alive and well.

A phoenix that

never looks the same;


Engulfed in its fiery wings,

my fingers must play on, 

Until my soul can sing.


To fly among the clouds,

In the musical expanse:

Challenge oneself,

take a chance.


Jazz is life

on 88 keys.

Countless options; 

a melodic trapeze.


Perfection is not important.

Nor are mistakes.

What does matter 

is choices I make.


In my jazz.



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