And what is left when the curtain falls
leaving empty halls and cold high walls
The Troubadour stands with nothing at all
Empty; spent; the music rent from his very soul
and delivered to a crowd,
both drunken and loud, beyond his control…
All metaphor lost, with the months that it cost
to tear at his heart and break through the frost
that was left behind the last time the crowd,
so drunken and loud asked his soul to bear
and pretended to care
just to force him to share
whatever he thinks when the world isn’t there…
But still he tries, and in sunshine sighs,
and at night he cries, bereft of all ties.
For his family has gone, they just cannot live on
with this man so obsessed,
by a dream he’s possessed!
If only he could pass the impossible test…
“Confound the crowd! All drunken and loud!
They serve only to shroud
my innermost thoughts delivered aloud.
One day I’ll make them see what it means to be me
and push back the overwhelming urge to flee…”
The day finally came and it all seemed the same
but something intangible seemed to have changed
and subdued the crowd, not so drunken or loud
who waited, breath baited for the curtain to rise
and when it did the surprise!
The Troubadour was gone or had he passed on?
Either way nothing shone…
But wait! Could they be wrong?
For on the far wall, was a note, very small.
A note that began with the only words he’d never sang
Tis better to have been loved and lost,
Than to never have been loved at all…