Her Voice

 

HER  VOICE

You question why she can not intone a song.
You can not hear, why blues, she does not sing.
Why luscious jazz standards she warbles wrong?
Her voice, empty, a clapper-less bell, longing to ring?
Her voice- the mirror that reflects her soul . . .
She killed her music, murder in her heart;
Now when she sings there's no sentiment to impart.
She's a mother who's offspring are ill sung songs.
Muteness-- in her womb, a quiet tomb; as hands clutching her throat;  choking her voice.
She won't cry with her tears to know the Blues,
Nor climb to her mountain tops to sing joyful tunes, she's made her choice
The choices she's made slaughtered her muse.
Her voice-- in perfect pitch, her love's tone-deaf, gone. 
Her heart-- silent,sans soul to sing a song.