Death of a Pianist

I do not think that his fingers
would let him go quietly.
They would be so used to,
coaxing and cajoling beauty,
from felt and wire and air.
They would have gripped with ferocity,
to hold him here.
There would always be more
to do, there would always
be a concert to come.
But when it could not be denied,
that the piece had been played,
with maybe a gentle air
to lead to new sounds.
New music no one else could hear.
 With the promise of
passion and drama unknown.
He would have to acknowledge
the turning of a page.
He would have to move on
to the next stage.