Woodworm (Poetry)

I am the piano
left out in the yard
with no one to play me
the weathering’s hard
now stripped of fine polish
my wood is laid bare
I’m warped in my dreaming
that someone should care

My notes a vague echo
of songs I once knew
remembering fingers
that guided me through
stroking — caressing
the music of time
but since I’ve been left
the cruel ache is all mine

No melody now
life’s concert is done
alone in the rain
my last audience gone
just the sound of the wind
moaning soft to the trees
while the worm at my heart
gnaws away love’s disease