Do songwriters and poets produce pieces that mean the world to them, that help them keep their grip of reality, only to have their masterpieces torn to shreds by the ever-changing effects of time?
Maybe it's just me...

The old ink lies on old paper,

Lifeless words, without their spark.

I'll read them again a bit later.

Though I know I'll still be in the dark.

They lie in long and empty lines -

My tired eyes follow with a blank stare -

And I'm reminded of long-gone times.

Tell myself I shouldn't care.

I strike the chords that minutes ago

Helped shape the world in my head.

The sound is dismal; dull and low

The hollow spits the music back - dead.

They're echoes of emotions past,

Words that convinced me of what was real.

But time flies... Oh so fast.

Too fast for a songwriter to drop the seal.

The End

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