The Voice

I first heard the Voice

as it transported

my mother out of her

unfulfilling, suburban agenda,

lifting her above

the detritus,

to dream the

impossible, often necessary

dreams

that true gifts

truly inspire.

For a glided season

he entertained the world,

smiling on cue,

pelvis swiveling,

hitting every note,

raking in riches,

his prodigious talent

the stuff of legends,

susceptible to

inevitable caricature.

As the love of the masses

waned,

he toiled on,

near obscurity,

to some,

an artistic pariah,

but the true believers

knew he was

biding his time.

Decades passed

and he outlived his critics,

naysayers silent

as he assumed the throne

with long-denied grace.

His crown

is now a shock of white,

and he possesses the wisdom

of a life lived hard,

sometimes even squandered,

and he rules

with the passion of David

and the wisdom of Solomon,

holding scales

balancing praise and blame.

If you came late

to his kingdom,

just bow your head

and join me

as I listen to him

preach and prophesy

from the tower of Song.

[Posted for #openlinknight at dversepoets.com - come along and surf a poetry wave!]