Are you listening? Really listening?
I don’t believe you hear me singing.
The song and words are from my youth,
my Rosetta stone, unlocking me.
Desperate screams from disparate voices.
Melodies, trances; sight lost to hypnosis.
Answers to harmonies yet asked, while
choruses echo, three sentences passed.
Sing aloud in bathrooms and sewers.
Conjoin reality to fantastical rumors.
This is my opus, loud and long, listening
to the composer, my master, a song
Mid-Aged Poetry 