This week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge just cried out for a poem rather than prose, so I’ve told my story in verse this time. The photo is compliments of our hostess, Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields. My story is below the picture.
What? You ask how did it happen?
Torn asunder piece by piece?
I admit it was my doing:
Thought perhaps my pain ‘twould ease.
For I cannot find my music;
Cannot hear the melody.
Cannot feel the beat, the rhythm;
And, of course, no harmony.
Still, my soul keeps searching, reaching;
Won’t believe the gift is gone.
It once coursed throughout my being;
Every breath exhaled a song.
Every heartbeat set a tempo;
Notes cascaded from my mind;
Even in sleep, my dreams invaded —
Nocturnes delicate, sublime.
Now, I’ve only fleeting memories
Of creating symphonies.
Tragedy beyond my bearing:
There’s no music left in me!
(Author’s note: For the sake of my wonderful friends who might worry about whether I’m going through such a tragedy personally, the answer, gratefully, is “No.” But I can imagine how devastating such an experience would be for any musician/composer.)