The market was empty,
if not for my voice,
as I crooned my sermon
as an effortless remedy.

Echoes are still validation.
The crowd had no choice,
but to take in a message
of my self-flagellation.

The instrument cracked
as my voice became hoarse;
each syllable sprang
with the skin off my back.

Per chance did you hear
that my music doth ****?
If you survived its sound,
it must not have been near.