I'm horrified
That the me that I thought was me
maybe isn't me anymore.
That those symphony plans,
Painted with every note of a thousand flutes
Dancing in the careful staccato of violins
Drowning in the deep thrum of a bass
Have gone out of tune.
That those dreams, works of art
Hanging in the Louvre,
Gold and silver, blue and blazing crimson,
Chiseled paper thin, and yet,
Portraying the strength of Mars himself
Have become numbed by flash photography
And by tourists who crowd
My little museum mind
For the fame, and not the art.
That when it all comes down to it,
How can I live a life
Sails to the wind, all anchors cut loose,
When, now, those chains bleed
If I take a knife to them?
