there are some old trumpets
that sound a better sound
the more beaten the brass
a mournful, experienced wail
that brings to stop the ones –
those that walk furious, fast past
it might be the cracked crying
of year over year over year
attempts at something bright
and dreams of a broader smile
that burnish the once soft gold
to something seeming forged
in a hotter, hellish blackened flame
but it’s now music all the same