I used to sing a song
That was sure and loud,
I yelled it like I yelled
Goodbye to strangers.
In the fight for it,
My voice often faltered.
I would call my warrior
And try again, until, one day,
In the loss of how different
I was to what I had attempted,
I bowed my head,
And left the song.
I didn't leave the string,
I plucked, gently strummed,
Into empty space.
Plucking and purposeless,
I could hear the leaves,
A faint clink of my father's
Porridge bowl on the microwave wheel,
I pushed my toes against the
Soft snug of my socks and sliders,
Plucking, tinkering.
Then, unannounced,
My voice appeared,
Humble, emerging
In shaky harmony.
This is your song,
Is what it said,
This, I strummed,
My vision gone in tears,
My body rippling with love,
This is your gentle song.
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