Words.
They linger at his finger tips.
Will his words influence
Will his words delight all
Can they just be his musings
That on paper he will scrawl?

Rhythm.
It dances on his pursed lips.
Will he play all the right notes
Will he make them groove
Can his music only be a vent
Of his joy and his gloom?

Colours.
They play on his withered brush
Will the hues be in harmony
Will his art satisfy
Can he splatter his soul on canvas, letting his thoughts fly?

Can his thoughts fly?

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