The bass bares its mahogany moan,
abrupt then flowing.
Thick. Unwavering. Absolute.
Guiding passengers to the dock;
the roaring winds, hastening of waves, the
Pharaoh and his footsoldiers, Red
Sea bursting abound,
tastes of milk and honey nigh.
What is to be done with this path,
but follow?
Then comes the crash,
the kick, and soon…
the snare.
Just as the torn drummer Hodge,
those like him keep pace for the rest.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Until either their victorious end,
or their innocent demise.
Whether stamping the veldt along
the cape,
or marching the hills of the English
countryside,
the two are forever bound.
The keys bounce,
roaming at free will.
The front line,
the rear, the rhythm.
All in one beast.
As the horns cry,
the battlers know their fate.
They, the signal,
lead by listening,
sounding the perils that
lie ahead.
They, the signal:
Loud. Boisterous. Ringing.
Unison exists when chaos
proves useless.
A scattered diaspora finding solace
in synergy.
They, the signal,
make the cry to bargain,
sing for their supper,
clench at the diaphragm.
They are the root,
the rhythm, the beat,
and the signal.
What is to be done with this path,
but follow?
