Decrescendo

When I remember music of my hands;
notes that flowed through fingers, young and free;
tunes that danced off keys of baby grands
now trip.

When I have dreams that wake me to the past;
days when I listened to my inner song;
night performs a dirge that moves too fast 
and time between each second sounds too long.

And when I see the dance floor that I left;
the stage with props of shiny black and white;
fantasies; ecstasies; were neatly cleft;
severed from the staff!