by Robin Schweitzer

This can’t be music, it’s too raw

heads of peroxide, heads of midnight
bobbing in unison to melodies obscured.

This congregation of lost idiots
trees without roots swaying aimlessly

this is Home.

Musicians are more than that, they are superstars.
We pray to them.
They harmonize agony
with a flick
of a pick
on a guitar string.

This is no song and dance.
This is a celebration, a glorification
of pain.
Or so we want you to think.

Rather, this is
the confession
that we are not alone
where admission turns to song.

This music, we need it.
It ends the freeze and brings the thaw.