A Voice

A voice.
a voice floating up above the noise,
above the traffic,
rising, rising
above the tall blue glass
rising, rising
higher to the antenna tops
rising, rising
where for all the world to see…

A small young voice that cries along the river of tears,
beat down by cold-stone winds
that fly across icy-green lakes
to sweep away all comfort from brown-box shelters.

We sat in a dreary urine-soaked concrete corner and discussed the future:

“It’s not about me,” I said to the junkies who sat with hollow-eyed painted stares. “It’s about a voice. A voice that normally can’t be heard above the noise and the hustle of the money changers who dwell in the upper-world, where empires rise from the river’s edge. I want you to think about it; if you had a voice, if you had the World’s attention for just one moment – as you look back on your life and your world, what is it that you would say?”