A song

There were words available to tell her story but she didn’t want them.

Because they only spoke, they didn’t sing.

And her story was a song to be sung.

Because when spoken of, it sounded like a trial.

But when sung, it grew wings.

Wings that rode on vibrations of sounds that could shake up, and break in like speaking never could.

So tonight she would sing her story in an alleyway.

In a narrow space.

So that the sound would fly up into open windows.

And give impoverished spirits a melody to dance to.