I rise and reach my crescendo, my voice tickles the highest echelons of available pitch, wavering, delicate, now a subtle shriek, melodious though, it is. I sing for them, I sing for me, a-top the plenary hideaway where I quietly go to express myself, to note all thoughts down, my pen, my ink, it drags from left to right, of my thoughts the device is well learned. And the wavering, the tumultuous calling is only heard by those attuned to higher pitches, special people who understand my supersonic cries, those who have been subjected to my pain and joy will understand both the rise and the strife. I start to warble now, with a warm, rich vibrato, much like an F# on a violin’s D string, it leads, it leads, wants to lead to the tonic G, and settle there we must, we have modulated together, created a melody purely for us. They’ve listened carefully and graciously, and with kind, generous natures, I feel utterly thankful, I can create a tune again, this time somewhat altered, but the story still remains, the thread of experience a sewn line, double stitched and emphasised. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Devi J from Pixabay
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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