Updated: Nov 2, 2020
I pretend that I can play.
I let the data flow from my fingertips,
as they clack against the keyboard,
like the music from the long dead.
I turn numbers into Chopin.
I turn dates into Beethoven.
I dream against the monotony & pretend that I am grand;
that I am an artist.
The light trimmers sickly green
but in my sonata I am under the stars with you.
I breath recycled air
but in my symphony I am drawing in the pines,
completely unaware of the phantom dread I had once known.
I pretend that I am an artist;
and my life,