What it feels like

  They told me 

Fly like a bird, they said all

Be like the sound you want to hear

Be like a sportsman, set the intention, precision

Then play like a dream and run like the wind

Sing you, sing like the moon, play as the risen lark

 

Dream like the artist who grew this art

Who painted their soul and drew the Gods

Of unknown lands far away

That are unlike, unloved, untouched

Until revealed

 

But a musician favours playing like anything but themselves

Because playing like is painting by numbers

Impressive, professional like but a replica of another soul

Easier

 

Let the simile fade with the blackened night

I played the moon, I played the birds

I sang the love and the death

Because I am also unlike any

None will play my moon again

But all shall feel like the thought of a silent unsung song yet to be played

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