strumming beats
a voice carries in the echo of darkness,
shrouding the atoms looking to be seen,
while hush murmurs play a chorus in a head
wrapped in syncopated rhythm as a thud
rolls upward, building into a fast accent
enrapturing an unknown audience
waiting in the corner, dark,
dark corner where even the stage lights
don’t reach, yet something’s heard,
and we’re off!
Fred Aiken Writing 