No Room for Anything Less

A faint memory just out of reach of little fingers
that glaze slowly, deliberately, over black and white.
They stretch and stretch and come together; they linger
some moments too long, in an effort to fight
what's holding them back: an untouchable past,
an intangible feeling, something they hope will not last.

The notes slur and semitones collide,
clumsy, uncontrolled, unintentions overtake direction.
The untrained nerves and quick desire for greatness do not comply;
frustration comes creeping, a guilty confession
of what could have been but is not,
of those battles faced but had not been fought.

What is instant gratification but the cheating of effort?
A memory faded returns from times a mere decade ago,
and if that challenge, then, had been faced, instead of cheap comfort,
these slow untrained fingers would surely flow.
But what is regret but an abyss of injustice?
There is only forward motion, no room for anything less.

submission to New Shoots