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