There was once a minstrel,
who walked from place to place,
who was known for being extremely lyrical,
who always had a smile on his face.
The minstrel was always outwardly hopeful,
the minstrel was always a beacon of optimism;
however, the minstrel was not invulnerable
and occasionally he felt like he was living
in some kind of psychological prison.
The minstrel loved to walk,
the minstrel loved the open road
that to him had always seemed unending;
however, one day the minstrel
found himself unable to sing,
unable to smile, unable to talk –
as if he had been struck
by a lightning bolt
that shook him to his core.
The minstrel found himself
somewhere he had never imagined existed:
the minstrel had arrived within a place
without light which he could not exit.
The minstrel did not know where he now was –
but, for the first time in his life,
having previously always known
where to go and what to say,
all that the minstrel felt
at this moment was lost.
The minstrel finally decided to take
his lute in his hands and give
the strings that he knew so well
one final strum –
and then, as he continued to walk
further into the darkness of the unknown,
the minstrel started to play,
to nobody but himself and the void,
what he called his “Goodbye Song”.
markthepoet.me 