His is art of healing

There's a place I like to go,

A place unknown to many,

A place you can be yourself,

a place as good as any,

Inside, high atop an empty stage,

Sits a bearded man, that plays double bass,

Agony expelling from his fingers in waves,

An irony plastered upon his troubled face,

I want to be just like him,

I want to take his place,

For his is the art of realism,

his is the art of healing,

I feel mine is the art of failure,

mine is void of feeling.

Many nights I've watched him,

turn his passion into sound,

Tonight, I saw him change forms,

And now he wears a crown.