I've seen you sore on eagle's wings,
afloat above defeat,
where you herd songs an angel sings,
and feed them with your beat.
I hear you here beside this brook,
beside this sycamore,
your voice inspiring all who look
at what they can't ignore.
Sing on, my sweet yet beaten friend,
within whom brave tunes hide -
the past is past all hope to mend
and cannot be denied.
Instead, spread forth your pinions bright
across the darkling sky,
revealing thus your inward might
to all who should pass by.
Rich Roach, 2009
*please note that "sore" and "herd" are not typos
