WITH SONG

The notes rattled the chains in his head;

souls marching, singing the pain

of long days lost to labor

for another man’s dream.

Tears jaggedly cut his dusted cheeks,

coursing rivers equal with oceans once crossed,

added up and stacked onto the forever of years lost.

Dust and sand kick up from under

the shoes of the man who sings a

the jazz,

stirring the blood of rivers in

souls thirsty to forget.


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