Unsung
A doer’s ode to the undone
The wishing well’s run dry.
The last the water bathed my throat
Was long before I felt a thirst
To speak, to sing — to cry.
I’m looking deeper down.
If there’s no ocean left below
That wets the dark abysmal depths
Then must I fall and lie?
I hold the upturned frown -
Its edges torn by chafing heat.
My tongue is tied; my knotted throat
Will not let out my voice.
The stagehands let me by.
I don the redness of the clown
While all the circus takes its seat -
High ruler of the crown.
They wait to hear applause.
I look down at the ground and choke:
“The well is dry. I cannot drown
And spectacle the sky.”
Their rage — it makes me die
But in that death I hear my call
So bright and true that all of them
With heavy hearts — yell, “Why?!”
Crow away.
Roost today.
Experiences unite us. I believe words can provide these experiences. The Poet is just one of many ways to share them.
The Poet fuses my reality and imagination using rhythm and rhyme.
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