Sing.
Mama's voice chimes bells.
Daddy's words raise hell.
The spell of music speaks doors into the night.
She steps onto the moonlight highway.
The melodies frozen in her ears from before
thaw and play their instruments
bringing life to dream-singers.
It's no coincidence
she was born premature.
It seems everything in her life has come early,
so she set her clocks ahead
and listened to the bells chime,
something like mama's voice.
Her home is a choice,
but not hers.
Instead she stirs the *** of muses
mixing salve for all the bruises,
not to her skin, he's not that stupid,
but for her bleeding heart
and broken mind.
Sing.
Purse your lips and cover your ears.
Conjure a tune from down in your belly
and make **** sure you guard all the exits.
Close your eyes and let the medicine
of cello strings and cymbals
back up the voice of your bones.
Don't let the melody presume to take words.
Your mind is caught up, trapped by the pain.
Just let soul **** tumble and fall
and rise, and climb and stall
and leave it all behind.
Let mama's screams blend in with crescendos.
Let go of this world.
Dip your toes in the timbre of streams.
Hands over your ears, don't forget!
Don't forget your form.
Forget the violent storms.
And if you're spun,
spin into helices.
Your DNA twisting into treble clefs,
hug the transformation close.
Who knows? You may sprout wings.
Sing;
If only a half-hearted whisper.
Sing yourself to sleep tonight.
And hope mama's voice still chimes in the morning.