Kevin Wang

Rookie (1994 / Lakewood)

'The Piano Fantasy' (Dedicated To My Love, Nicole; Have The Guts To Read It?) - Poem by Kevin Wang

“The Beginning”
There, an ancient piano,
a grand piano, sat beside a bench.
Out of the darkness, came the one,
The One to play its keys, the smoothness never forgotten.
The second the knowing fingers had touched the keys,
it was as if they had been together for decades ‘til known.
Sitting there, beneath God’s light, for a minute touching the keys, as if were another hand.
Slowly sweeping the fingers here and there,
slightly above its surface,
as if trying to feel the fire,
the soul deep within their centers.
Until to be found, the true meaning would never be understood.
To be revealed, he, the pianist must quickly grip,
grasp his flair for her, the piano.
Surprisingly, dramatically, suddenly,
His heart, eyes laid grievously, but
it was in the Sea of Fire.
From there, gleaming with true passion could truly,
play with his heart.
From that point, that spot,
gentle staccatos were sounded but stretched beyond echoes.
But only then, could a sound be heard as words sung as a musical.
No music could ever compare,
or be in comparison of his dream,
the dream of the Piano Fantasy.
These words of music could never be written,
for it is strictly forbidden.
His door with her is open now,
opened to the right road, path,
the path of light, otherwise known as the true path.
Slowly, climbing up the stairs,
the glass stairs of a fragile crescendo.
There, that night,
the night where even the Gods came out to hear.
To hear many different, diverse, heterogeneous melodies.
Some as shattered glass or stabbed in the back,
some as dark clouds throwing angry bolts and roaring above,
above the sounds of falling into the pits of darkness.
Some, best of all, as cherubic, heavenly measures.
To imagine the angels are singing once so heavenly above.
‘Till then did it enter through the birth of music.
As if the music of a symphony sounded by Lang Lang,
the true piece of music,
played upon faster and faster until the adventure had begun.
First traveling the world,
then the sky ‘til the Heavens above,
then the constellations were the stars, his eyes watching over her when he is not there to be by her side,
then to the Milky Way Galaxy,
from the Sun, they had returned with unspoken passion.

A birth of a wondrous fantasy had begun,
it is was just the beginning, the start of the music sheet.
Her strings were not even hot,
but warm with heart.
Left hand then began playing by itself,
playing whereas life is among a cloud of lies,
but the right then joined it, only to tell it:
Truth, the key, the light withholds what you yourself must look inside of you,
then the answer may come to you, right beneath your nose.

“The Heavy Burden from Which He Carries Day by Day”

These hands, the creators of music,
the music that told, picture a story of life,
the life of the pianist,
and how it is like in his shoes.
As the clock ticks by,
time quickly passes in front of his eyes.
Abruptly,
a heavy albatross hangs by his neck,
a truly heavy burden for which he carries day by day.
Time is precious as it song sung,
sung only but by the breathtaking, musical voice by his love.
His true love which bring tears upon his eyes and down his chin.
Everyday, crescendos and decrescendos.
Everyday a battle of life and death,
innocent one lost,
loved ones lost,
tears of the Gods are fallen from the Heavens,
blood is shed for which is spilled upon the darkened sky.
From a teardropp away,
the truth which he must face is what evil that befallen him,
His true love which brings tears upon his eyes and down his chin.
Everyday a battle of life and death,
innocent ones lost,
loved one lost,
Tears of the Gods are fallen from the Heavens,
Blood is shed for which is spilled upon the darkened sky.
From a teardropp away,
the truth which he must now face is what evil that had befallen him.
His truth must be told for his true love,
his true love was lost amongst on the great battles.
There kneeling where dead bodies lie all around.
Peace was no word to be described as,
but doleful was what he was.
His eyes red,
rain falling, drenching him as if he had taken a dive.
Now all alone in life.
The one who had only survived the Last Great Battle of Life & Death.
From that spot, grieving in madness,
the madness, in definition, as “nothing else to do but die”.
A minute passed by,
and there he then cried out to the Heavens above,
with one and only one word: Why?
From returning to the blindness of his vision when tears blurred his vision,
pieces of the music prolonged,
but felt as if some were out of place,
missing the complete sound of the measure.
Passion of emotions circulating throughout him and her strings.
How the strings used to be warm with heart,
but now, only wintriness filled his grief leaves it trembling in the coldness.
There telling that the centerpiece was incomplete,
and could never be bandaged,
but a ripple, a scar for life.
Now,
his burden now shown,
which grew worse by each nightfall,
shown how lonely he was in this despondent, miserable world it was.

“Playing Below the Sorry Rain”

Hours gone by and sweat poured down the face,
he could never stop but went on,
while swaying back and forth.
Passion of emotions came exploding her and there,
coming to attack out of nowhere.
Each piece as lonely as he was,
was only but a leap of faith.
Music as words was created as he walked down the path.
Music never to end by his will,
but as a never-ending, everlasting river.

“Climbing of Warmth to be Held Once Again”

There sitting beyond the horizon,
whereas only looking upon the beholder of music,
but in the dark shadow.
The pose of determination and courage never fails him.
There written in the picture of how incompleteness was not what he intended.
Knowing his grieving, nimble fingers, and her strings combined,
would be heard,
heard ‘til all is forgiven.
Oh, how he once played duets with the love of his life.
Though…all is gone now.
Written there, said: No more upon this gloomy day.
From then on,
nimble he was, and
how light on his fingertips as he were on his feet.
Now to be up on his feet again,
the strings were getting warm once again.
but not as the warmth of his hidden heart in this foggy night.

“The Four Seasons”
dedicated to George Winston, especially for the song, Cannon

Here and there,
playing fermatas, other known as the bird’s eye.
Being the conductor of his own,
did he only take them as if gulps of air.
Each breathe so precious,
as tears, cost of silver,
and golden memories to be remembered, salvaged by his life.
From there on,
he led from forte to largo and piano (p, soft) ,
playing many sharps and flats.
Sharps from the pain and suffering.
Flats for the absence of pieces of his heart.
For his heart is made up of bits of fragile pieces which could be broken into a thousand pieces.
Each measure was never round, repetitive in sound,
but it is in music and melodies.
it is always played by heart,
not what he was willed to do.
Only then did he feel to a warm as heart from the strings.
Little did his past,
all the terrible memories of death stirred up,
bring around of massacres up to an allegro, fast tempo.
Whereas now is the past, it is then,
to have the writers, the hands, draw the four seasons:

Spring, Season of Blooming
Where the birth of,
beauty, youth, sprouts, roots, and hearts in bloom.
Whereas then the,
ebb of the flow continues still forever.

Summer, Season of Growth
Minute by minute, the creator makes,
slurs of how he is playing solo,
but also growing into a new life.
Variations differ as nature grows its own way.
The love of the piano music grows much,
as tall as skyscrapers,
the trunk protects those of his loved ones.

Fall, Season of Slowly Withering Away
Long does his experiences live on,
but as the leaves that once shelter over the soil of the roots, his heart withers away.
Look upon the eyes of the pianist,
in it is the fiery fire of the dragon forever stays.
The colors of orange, yellow, and red,
the colors are now fading and coming to an end.

Winter, Season of Cold Death
Little does he know,
but the music of real life is going out,
to a diminuendo, slowly creeping to a softness.
Life is never simple, the way you want it to be,
it always has nature’s ways.
Music in which hangs above him is,
forever going on like the Flame of the Olympic Torch.
Spiritually forever,
but mentally hand grew too old.
The season was coming to an end,
the end of his life,
but he does not know of it,
and keeps playing on,
not a care in the world.

“Reborn to the New World, the True Piano Fantasy”

From there,
the one was reborn,
reborn to the True Piano Fantasy.
Where he met the angels singing so holy, blissfully,
entering the silver gates.
But then did he sop the music,
a silence in the world, whereas staggering upon the keys, upon yonder.
He could only choke back his words, and no words, sound came out.
Tears once so long ago, unknown to him, came out,
but this time,
was not the grieving tears,
but the tears of joy.


“The Remembrance & Scar Perished”
In front of him,
stood the one and only, true love, whom he missed dearly.
As a fairytale, it was true love, and true love’s first kiss.
Her hair black, silky, and floats among the horizon line,
Her eyes gleamed of the spark of smiles upon her face,
Her face never forgotten and stilled seemed like a cute bunny, but…
he knew the Gods forgave him,
gave him a second chance,
a chance to start a brand, new life.

Not a second lost,
but did the loved one touch the keys from which,
he staggered upon.
There it had continued,
a scar once there, now perished.

“Renaming what once was known as Winter”
Never did it truly sound of the Piano Fantasy he always dreamed of.
There reunited,
once a solo, now a duet.
Once a human, clouds filled his eyes,
but now his face was calm and peaceful.
It was only again did,
Spring, Season of Blooming began once again,
born into a new world and birth of a new world, Piano Fantasy,
only did it upon the ends of the rainbow.
There he completed his heart into full bloom,
no more dark days.
There he and she,
played, wrote, imagined, touched upon their last words,
only but ‘til the last day of Winter.
Once Winter, Season of Cold Death,
but now known as,
Season of Death and Rebirth.

“Inscription upon the Mountain”

Those of last words,
the only words ever written, carved into stone,
forever to be known,
‘til wind, water, and earth makes the greatest mountain ever.
Whispers of the wind echoes throughout the lives of music.
From that spot,
named “The Heart of All”,
wrote: “The tree represents the passion of another but a loved one as the one sits and plays right beside of me”:

“Its roots keeps the secret,
Its trunk protects the core, my heart to yours,
Its branches pose a figure of courage and heart,
Its leaves hang not only as ornaments but a roof over you and me,
Its flowers bloom out only to the light of yours,
Its petals fly to the whispers of the wind to reach you,
Its message is: Before you go, to say you last goodbye.
Forever know the beauty is within you is never forgotten.
Your words, hair, most of all, the smiles on your face keeps the music on.
From the ends of the rainbow,
‘til death to be known, either stay with me or I will go with you


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Poem Submitted: Friday, February 5, 2010



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