A single melody can feed five thousand,
thirst is quenched with sweet showers of rhythm,
but too often there’s a catch,
like how little boys will dance
until adults say It’s wrong,
and a pulse is stopped.
Still. Another pulse is stopped.
Like in the suicides of thousands,
some who never held hands because it was wrong,
some who never sang in a lover’s ear to swells of rhythm,
the melodic waves that pull bodies to dance
aren’t life preservers everyone gets a chance to catch.
Like how little girls will play catch,
until a pulse is stopped.
Until some man says she should only dance,
but only with half of thousands
—and without picking the rhythm—
because twirling with girls is wrong.
Why do only some get to choose whose love is wrong?
And now there’s so many fireflies we’ll never catch,
all moving in the night music, trapped in the rhythm,
the rhythm of staccato drops, so many pulses stopped.
Forty-nine multiplied by thousands:
so many steps left in the dance,
still. Even in silence we must dance,
and make new love, and new music when the radio’s wrong,
we must join our voices with thousands.
Alone there’s too many tears to catch,
too many pulses stopped
before the end of their intended rhythms.
So many feet dead to the rhythm.
All they wanted to do was dance,
so many pulses stopped.
There is so much wrong. So much wrong.
Grief is a bitter bug to catch,
each day passing like a thousand,
but a single rhythm can heal five thousand.
So take my hand and we’ll dance, and find rainbows to catch,
and honor each pulse that’s stopped wrong.
