Music left my blood

As quickly as it came,

That one summer night

When I fastened my first song

To the fret board of my Father’s guitar.

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Now all I see are memories

Of songs completed and sang

To groups of strangers who

Applauded lightly and silently

Wished that they could do the same.

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I must admit to you that

I feel an emptiness right where

The songs used to fill.

The echo chamber in my chest has

Emptied once again.

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I tried to run and live a tune

With asphalt and tar and

A new person to call “you” when I sing,

But still there is nothing in there.

And sadly, I must strive to start over

With an empty fretting hand.