It was fortunate
The way his voice floated through the cracks on the second story
How could a voice so full of feeling glide so effortlessly on air?
She knew the weight of sorrow
She had carried it through the slums
As they watched in windows with discontent
Even the rain knows misery
Who else breaks rain’s fall?
As she picks up the violin
She knew once how to play
Before she lost all sensation
In the tips of her being
His voice rises
Carrying her to the open window
She feels light
As the music from long ago
And the rain, it jolts to a beat
As it strums her blood through the streets
(Dedicated to C, and his voice, which carried me to wonderful places.)
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