A black wall. His fears standing
against him.
No breath blows the barrier down.
No shouts, push, pull
Or hide the anger.
But when he sings….
He sings the strength of trees falling,
owning the space where they lie.
His sound hammers the air,
framing rooms on the stage of
his mind.
And when he owns the jazz….
The jazz tears the colors separate.
Faces smile alike. Legs with dance
soul dip;
knees bend the travel of healing.
Walls bow to the strength of
his songs.
Roger Singer 