There’s a man screaming into an empty crowd
His face painted by the sweat dripping from his furrowed brows
His hands hold a microphone in a knotted grimace
A purple horizon cuts the room,
Dipping undertones into the man’s words
There’s not enough blood and sweat left on the floor
So the man shakes his head and wrings it like a used towel
But he bleeds nothing but tears
And angrily he spouts another line as the agony climbs
Octaves bounce and dance, pain-skinned balloons can’t fly,
When they’re filled with screams
Around and around his seizures dip into rapture
A sweet serenity slipped inside the madness
The eye of the storm
A slim smile creaks beneath his barbed mustache
A crack of joy beneath the grief
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