She cannot write
Her fingers etch
Into stubborn keys
Stumble corrupted
Silenced by the music
Sharing in the passion
But without proper purpose
Fueled by the action (alone)
With so many concepts
But lacking proper wording
No bridge to connect the two
Between the here and now
And the long dead
And the river that continues on
Past the end and into the beginning
Of the world that lives on her fingertips.