Symphony

In between and among
hard things and hard places,
when its dark under the covers
and cold,
you strive so hard,
ivy leaves growing up and down
against scratchy brick walls,
to feel the light and see the light
and still be the light.
Red lipstick falling down my face.
Eyes turned blue.
Freckles burned on my skin
and plumb blush stained.
A symphony of sadness.

City walls being torn down
are nothing to these walls.
Concrete so thick
an air raid wouldn’t even
cause all souls
to hide in basements.
There’s no light there.
The wailing warning
simply an instrument
in the back of the orchestra.

Still sounds
rumbling sounds
quiet sounds
sounds that rattle your bed frame
and rattle you
right out of bed.
All part of this greater symphony.

The conductor.
Now that’s a story.
Who may he be…
Some pain loving demon
charged with drawing blood?
A God who can bear to see us
hurt so greatly?
A friendly prankster
pawning us out in this game?

A cacophonous symphony.
Wailing and churning
and rattling and yearning
for the light.
We play our instruments
for this light,
to bring the sun
to shine.

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Took this a few years back while walking the streets of New Orleans and stumbling among interesting folk and beautiful sights.

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