The soul of the artist, but not the practice, the eye, the ear, but not the execution. The missing piece comes and goes at whim. Oh, fickle muse, how you punish me for my neglect.
Beautiful text! Love the eye with the tears.
Thanx! After a week of listening to Bill Moyers' The Language of Life in the car, all of my thoughts came out as poetry. Like picking up an accent. LOL!