41 Hz Poem by Arthur H Rowley

I think from years collecting these moments
these memories and stories
and allowing them to take parts of me
I have lost the soft
the version of me that cradled piano keys
and played only to feel love played back to them

now, I am the writer
I am bitter
I am lonely
there is nothing tangible and physical
to become of whatever I create
my art is destined to exist only within my head

and that fantastical creature
the one that sang to my audience
and sobbed just to hear the melody their tears made hitting the keys

the kindness is gone now
I am what is left
I was and always will be
destined for this