Instrument.

I don’t think anyone
knows what it’s like
to be away from your
instrument;
no one who doesn’t play
can know.

Left strung out,
alone,
they ache to be aired;
ache to feel eager fingers.

I pine after them,
dream about them –
they’re like 
a family
I can’t bear to leave

(cold sweats in the night,
and all that –
when the winks lean more
towards rest
than sleeplessness;
but only just).

Left behind:
what if they’re forgotten
for ever?

What opportunities
for glory
might be missed?

A song is like an
encapsulation
of the universe –
every life contained within
its key.

The arrangements count
for nothing
unless life feels life,
feeds life,
and remains hungry.