To A Singer, From Her Songs
You have driven us for years.
Counting our notes like sheep, urging us over storm-weathered hills.
Our cries are nothing to you.
Some you catch, stretching them beyond your rhythm, into the dark.
Some of us you call, softly at first;
Some you flay alive, the sound reverberating as you feed.
Sated, you are tender then;
caressing our bones, draping our wet skins over the chords to dry.