Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

The Choice

Ever since my Muse, that louche bastard,

Hared off to who knows where

And never returned, I feel I’ve lost a hand.

But I was never all that good at art, anyway.

In my early 20s, I had to choose:

Pictures or words.

I chose art.

Fall back.  Regroup.

Moving on.

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