In the microphone hum it is soaring,
It is in the booming voice the crowd cannot help but notice,
It is lock-step syncopation firing from the synapses to the tongue twisted in the timbre of its torsion.
It is there in the torture of a heart imparted,
In the sweeping, sticky cellophane wrapped around sweet sentiments,
In sound and fury,
In quiet duty, in unfurling similes:
Like drum skins tightened,
Like loft spaces filled with birds,
Like the words sitting serenely in a library – waiting to explode,
Like books could be bombs with the right inflection,
Like how they turn perspective inward for inspection,
Like genuflecting to a king throned inside your self,
Purpose is found when unearthing your own wealth.