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.