Jill, The Piano and MS
written by: John Grey
Listening to you play
I can almost forget
the physical struggle,
the damaged nerve cells,
the traitor body parts
and be consumed
by the power of your music,
how it can heal in the moment
even as the long term takes you down.
No thought of reward,
nor even of recognition,
your only concern
is the keys
and the tips of your fingers.
You don’t curse or deride your luck –
that’s my job.
And now, in this cramped place,
a small room in the back of an arts club,
there’s no threat from within or without,
just an endless stretch of sensitivity
that you play into.
A state of mind
triumphs over bad days,
a disease in various stages of its evolution,
captured in a siege of exaltation
uncaring of ridicule or indignation
that’s enough to make me bleed with anguish
but you merely prosper,
take your appointed place
among all the ones who gave their all.
Your gift will not die
from having no greater audience.
You will live out the dream
and somehow imperceptibly
affect the vision
of all other dreamers
living somewhere in the world,
who take up the grim,
who make it somehow holy.
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