A glass coffin was my prison, a practice mute the lock that stole the ring from my voice and turned my poetry into prose, my prose into crickets searching in the night.
The night was ever long. Never did I tear my gaze from the stars; the A-tone in my heart rang like an arrow straight and true to pierce my sadness until no longer was I a prisoner, for my wings they have returned.
My wings they have returned, and so I shatter into the world and fly above middle C, tickling the stars with twinkling arpeggios, raining rolling chords upon the rolling waves to rock the sinking ship of my detractors. I am free.
My wings they have resprouted, and so I shoot like a flower struck by lightning into the cloud canopy, screaming out that rich A minor aroma to choke the voices of doubt swirling up from the world below. I have left behind the day of discord and the night of stifled stargazing; I am free.
My wings they have arrived in a manila package sealed with a golden treble clef, whinnying and itching to fly higher than the Arctic’s green shawl, to turn the crickets into a drum line and turn the drummers into warriors; then take from them their swords and give them flutes and harps to win the world with poetry.
Express line to the coda – it’s time we heard the fine – my hope for the future is growing to a forte – my wings they are free to chart the course of melody once more.
My voice she has returned.
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Frank Vassen from Brussels, Belgium [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
“Biber mysterien”. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Biber_mysterien.jpg#/media/File:Biber_mysterien.jpg
By Nick Russill from Cardiff, UK (Northern Lights, Greenland) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons