Starts with losing all of my pride.
Sometimes the saddest thing I sighed—
a hundred lost friends’ names aside—
was a lyric that had blessed me.
When the song would no longer speak
its silent memory did seek,
from inside me, to make me weak.
I withered everywhere I went.
Everywhere I went I questioned,
searched for songs; memory lessened.
When I sang out no one listened.
First, comfort of repetition.
Second, a sense of loss on completion.
Then obsession becomes tradition.
Lost one song’s refrain, one song’s verse.
To lose the battle song my curse.
But to remember it was worse,
I’d keep singing singing singing.
Finally it was that was that.
Sing it again? Pass the hat?
A song can suddenly be what
you remember and you forget.
Now for each song, “is it just so?”
How are we expected to know
that’s just the way some old songs go?
This history circles around
a singer’s final lilting frown
and then the curtain touches down.
Continued letting songs pass by—
A trill quickly became that sigh
of only having the words. I
tried to reinvent melodies.
Every honest attempt failed.
My voice over time and line paled,
melody ceased when I exhaled.
I wrapped a muffler round my throat.
Everywhere I went I questioned,
searched for songs; memory lessened.
When I sang out no one listened.
There’s comfort in repetition.
Then a sense of loss on completion.
That tradition became obsession.
Ended inside a hospital.
The rain outside filled up the well
in each of my eyes. Couldn’t tell
the traffic sounds from my old songs.
Strung together the halls I ran,
one lyric for every man
I passed. A dedicated fan
had become a committed one!
Then for each song, “is it just so?”
How was I expected to know?
That’s just the way some old songs go.
My destiny circled around
a singer’s final lilting frown
and then the curtain touches down.