A trumpet is not so different
It is capable of the most exquisite harmony
And the harshest dissonance
It can work seamlessly, flawlessly,
As if all of its life it has trained for the moment,
Or it can stubbornly stay silent, and no amount of incentives
Can make it work its magic.

A trumpet is capable
Of announcing its achievements
Mourning its failures,
And changing tones with the speed of quicksilver,
As if the past had never occurred

Even a trumpet has felt the pain of been dropped, forgotten,

Left to molder in the attic of memories.
It has felt the warmth of others’ admiration,
Felt the agony of being beaten into shape,
Bending before it breaks,
Flexible by nature, yet unable to stay strong forever.

Although sometimes a trumpet wonders
If it is just the instrument for greater things
If its accomplishments will always be credited to another,
Most days, it is content in its many roles
A loyal vassal to royalty
An entertainer to the masses
A defender on the front lines,
Striking fear into the hearts of opponents.
A friend to those that need
The guidance and the comfort.

A trumpet is not so different.