Now It Cries To The Crows Poem by Mark Heathcote

We all stand in the music
learning to dance
shaking little fists at first at the sun
like a bubble that's about to burst
hoping to glide and float
get inside a moment that frees you
but often, something holds you back
like a butterfly cocooned aching,
aching to float - leave your prisoned mind
heal the scar that's never healed
since being born to hear an instrument
without a tune, a chord, a song to sing.
We stand in the music, asking our Lord.
Lord, can I sing for you
I've found my voice
it once was lost, but now it cries to the crows.
Lost like a trophy never to be won
going insane to remain untarnished the same.