His lungs were a hymn
and ribs caged a pigeon with wings
that span the length of a symphony
In discord against doldrumming winds
Music Man has the blues
He’s searching for lighter notes
to burn the harmonious cigarette of his tunes
Flickering melodies into a tray of resonance
where the ash particles dance with a god-like petulance
If Music Man breathes
He’ll birth a Phoenix.
LindiWait is a writer of things from Johannesburg, South Africa.