the ghosts in my attic can play piano
not very well, but playing is still playing
i used to get annoyed- it was always 3 am
but eventually, i got used to it. i grew tired.
sometimes it is like steps down the keyboard,
sometimes it is a loud, dramatic smash of anger
those are the days i apologize and ask what’s wrong
i set out rotten fruit and bad bread,
giving up an offering to appease them.
through the floorboards, they tell me stories,
and I listen to tales between C and F sharp.
their melancholy fingers dart across keys,
my heart following them throughout the music.
death did not stop them from
playing symphonies in my attic,
and I won’t let a priest stop them either.
i’ve covered all my mirrors, buried my crucifixes,
and i wait for them to finish their songs.
it is only polite to be a good audience,
i suppose, and when the sun comes up,
the melody doesn’t cease. they follow me,
sound echoing in my ears throughout the day.
the ghosts in my attic can play piano,
despite my house only having one floor.
i’ve checked the crawl spaces, there was nothing,
so how they got up in my head, i don’t know