Music sang the the soul.
Of a little girl,
Who's only goal,
Was to play.
Anything from,
Beethoven to Bach,
Mendelssohn,
And Debussy.
Art opened the heart,
Of a lost older girl,
Who didn't know,
What was true,
She painted,
From morning,
Till night.
Alone in her room.
She wanted to write.
The words fresh,
In a fragile mind,
Afraid to say,
Or tell,
The story,
Of pain.
And Triumph.
The notes of the music,
Started to mesh,
The paint,
On the brush,
It faded.
Words lost,
In translation,
Losing meaning.
She chose a safe path.
One without risk.
Without pain,
Or seeming,
Completely alone.
She needed,
Perfect mediocrity.