A body poem

My fingers, My children.
They scratch the piano's hands ,
They laugh in high pitch notes,
Cry in low notes
My children run fast,
Across the piano's face,
The piano just laughs.
My children become older everyday,
There have small wrinkles on their face.
And that luster in their eyes that starts to fade away into a dark grey.
Even the piano falls out of tune,
B sounds like a screechy old man,
D sounds like a dying cat,
Screaming in its last second in its life.
So children, you are my world,
You are how I feel alive,
Without you,
I’d be separated surely,
from the world and from expressing my self.