All That Is Left

For most of my days there was my music.
It comforted me, it punished me
It inspired me and tortured me.
A constant struggle to master the notes
And bring them to an impossible perfection.
It was something to anchor my wayward soul
And channel a driving urge to create.
Physical demands and limitations
Imposed a disappointing ceiling
On what was called ‘my music’.
A lack of talent, a dearth of will
And minimum of practice put paid to that.
After a long and often unsuccessful run
Like all life’s pleasures, it could not last.

Words are all that are left.

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