It’s a soft horn
wails no comfort,
no comfort.
It’s a slow beat
moving slow feet,
slow feet.
It’s a big string bass
plucked in a dark,
dark place.
Drumming comes,
an unroused rhythm
stirring no blood,
and the voice cries next,
a sound like searching,
as if words might ignite,
burning the dead soul underbrush,
torching the tangled discontents,
opening the tender heart’s way
to braver dreams, maybe,
and stronger songs
and gifts that others give.
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