That piano man. Unlocking
keys with his finger. Breaking down
doors into the light of song. His
head pulses with beat. Shoulders
sway like ocean waves bringing the
high tide of song to the shoreline
of crowds.
The sound is a wind he creates. Escaping
the bonds of different voices where
into one moment everyone becomes
equal.
Time fails at his beckoning. Midnight
no longer calls out. Night is day to
him, as he encourages the ivories into
the next level, separate from the last.
Roger Singer 