Although life is one pitiful concert,
Not everyone needs to play or perform.
The music plays, happily or hurt,
But never loses the mind it flows in from.

The ear of an adolescent girl
Listens intently to quizzical noises.
The voice of a teen male yet to unfurl,
Cracks under pressure before other voices.

Nerves take the best of him, dragging away
The voice of one blossoming new artist.
The listener and artist go to stay
Under the lonely heavens in the mist.

If the two bodies officially met,
What would become of old decisions?
Just as if the mist would rise and wet
Their instruments, would it mute musicians?