I was a bard, I thought,
I tried.
To learn my craft, I struggled,
Strived.
And at one time, I thought,
I had,
Some skill, some art, and was
A bard.
To sing my songs, it was,
A joy.
To help companions, joyous,
Too.
Perhaps a story, jest,
Or jape.
Keep spirits high, and group-mates
True.
But now, but now, where is
My skill?
‘Tis gone, not gone, but damaged,
Frayed.
My mind is fogged, my fingers
Weak.
And what remains….Just what remains?
Taking Stock
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