*The Singer Will Not Sing*

~By: Maya Angelou~

A benison given. Unused, no angels promised,
wings fluttering banal lies
behind their sexlessness. No
trumpets gloried
prophecies of fabled fame
Yet harmonies waited in
her stiff throat. New notes
lay expectant on her stilled tongue.
Her lips are ridged and
fleshy. Purpled night birds
snuggled to rest.
The mouth seamed, voiceless.
Sounds do not lift beyond
those reddened walls.
She came too late and lonely
to this place.