Sharks in the dunk tank
Vipers in the garden
Air’s choked to death with robotics: dragonflies
And your sound.
Strained from practicing
By cover of night
And your quieting sheets,
You move tight.
Within the system
Of your parents,
And your god.
They all say you can’t play
And try as you might, you can’t care
About them more than this,
Your true gospel.
Your real religion.
You felt it in you for years
This pull towards what was denied you.
When you were eight, you were grounded for humming.
Just a little ditty,
But the scare it gave your mother nearly killed her.
By nine, you’d progressed to singing.
You never sounded good because there was no one left to teach you.
When you turned ten, you learned to hide your differences.
The night after your sixteenth birthday, you found them.
Cached away beneath the city
The last of the musicians.
They gave you a violin.
You knew all along you’d burn for this.
It didn’t matter.
You learned. And now,
You tell your story between the chords.
The dragonflies land to listen.
Wow. Californianlabyrinth wrote this poem inspired by “Melody for the Primordial.” Cool!
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