Tessa, Song Had Began to Fade

At the turning point a big, swarthy man
came to me. He’d sung a song that only
he knew. An old spiritual. The poor’s
syncopated moans thumped against
the satin and flowers.

Here on the other side of the water
I am in a funk. Wallowing.
Song had began to fade.
In blithe contempt a body leaned
against wood. It was blue gray.

Prompt: Red Wolf Journal’s “Song of Myself” Spring/Summer 2016 edition released yesterday. That’s why song’s began to fade. Then of course a new song will come. It always does. They keep comin and comin till one dies. But to keep ’em from coming you can turn away. You muffle it. Then in a last gasp it dies. Write about loss of voice (losing heart) and whether it’ll ever come back in a poem.

After

losing my voice
to crows along the wall
haphazard choir warming up
to what was once your name

giving up all heart
to sheets wrestling on a pole
against the breeze
before falling to rest like a wave

leaving thought
between pages closing
in another book of dreams
memory has become

avowal’s true meaning
the two of us
that was once all of me
fading at last as I speak

–Cyril Wong

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