Face The Music

Featured art by Karol Bąk

Listen to Face The Music by Richard Charles Stevens

Listen to Reboot by Kn1ght

In dead of night
With sight impaired
Despairing eyes invite the scares
Our thrones dispose of rightful heirs
Bones exposed to frightful tears
Spiteful glares burn bright like flares
Hereby declared no vital air
For all of our recited prayers
We barely leave a mark
The only tears our bodies shed are cheerless in depart
Less we roll back years to seek the beats of fearless hearts

We all have a voice
And it’s our choice to use it shrewdly, crudely, prove it, mute it, lose it or refute it
Some of us bid to rejoice in our gift
While others are swift to abuse it
Blaming the acoustics
For abusive slurs producing hurts
While too inert to turn and face the music
Some of us are muted
With no breath left to dispute it
Losing light and air
Declared no respite therapeutic
Unaware of crest flight
For we dare not stray the wreck site
Care to shed light on the shadows deepest rooted

We all have scars
From seasons passed
The ones we guard
From grievous harm
Secrets kept of speechless psalm
And seldom ever called to arms
Calling cards to healing balm
Peeling bark
Revealing marks
Are charmed to be disarmed
Of no alarm remarked
And feeling calm

In dead of night
With sight impaired
Despairing eyes invite the scares
Our thrones dispose of rightful heirs
Bones exposed to frightful tears
Spiteful glares burn bright like flares
Hereby declared no vital air
For all of our recited prayers
We barely leave a mark
The only tears our bodies shed are cheerless in depart
Less we roll back years to seek the beats of fearless hearts

We all have a voice
And the choice is our own to go for broke when choke holds grope and open branches as they pass us
Soak in light and air
Declared of respite therapeutic
Learn to turn, face and embrace the music
Chance our arms and dance our dances
Claim and fame our inner artists
Seek out nature through catharsis
Speak in favour
Waiver harshness
Walk away from wreck sites
Remain gracious in our crest flight
When the dead of night affects sight
And our sweaty palms are clenched tight
Shine the headlights
At the height of senses
Drop defences
Find our voices
Cry them breathless
Bleed to sow a seed infectious

We all have a voice
And it’s our choice to use it shrewdly, crudely, prove it, mute it, lose it or refute it
Better yet
Use retrospect to reinvent our red rosettes
Burn our beds
Turn heads and face the music

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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