The many ways to sing in solitude:
to howl, scowl-growl, gurn-skirl or whine in pain,
to tell a foolish tale, to serenade,
evoke a being, sing out brief love's refrain.
A wall of paper-testaments asleep.
Wake! Boom! And hear a great cacophony,
a wall of sound to match these green walls deep,
travelling with traffic incessantly.
Whatever mood I have a pen to track,
except this wind that blows through years of me
the years where trauma never set his stone
the quiet years - like grass grows through a crack -
where all the burden is released from me;
they go on growing, rolling greenly on.
