Old, you’re told before me
Like a poem on cracked wood
Your hands have stuck to palms
As a prayer to the audience

You try to cry, but your tears have gone
Shed ahead of dreams that tarry
Pride and soul flutter from you
For a moment while you hold your notes high

You become what you’ve always been

Quietly, nearly a whisper in your gritted teeth
When you don’t sing you stutter
You wail to your women, to the crowd, to me
But you’ve never sung to one but yourself

And when you shake your voice
To the people that barely care
I suddenly believe you
Adverts flash behind your stare
And I suddenly can see you

Your voice dries up as you fade so bare
But it never could feed you.