there is a trumpet...
blowing its solitary notes in brassy tributes
reverberating golden with three keys
it is the voice spiraling upward and outward
spinning withing itself not to be heard
it is bassy cello vibrations bouncing off high bluffs 
and sinking in valleys low
it is silent
yet still screaming
not seeing
feeling loneliness instead
and the insecurities of being inadequate 
to perform the duites assigned it
the voice is now muted
its pathways blocked with inconvienant appendages and obstacles
it will not hurdle too small boxes 
and tear away layers of false promises
it longs to be honest
to taint its color with laughter
to escape from tight lipped prisons and catapault into the sun
bursting a millon colors in words...