Ray LaMontagne

Hope to mend from festered wounds,
fill empty voids with love and light,
a choice to feel the weight of worlds,
aware of humanity’s frightful plight,
he won’t be bent like a paper back,
he sings in echoes, raw and right,
yet when he speaks, he’s shy, succint,
his voice at best through chords he sings,
guitars and lights, solos and riffs,
shivers running down my spine,
frequency tuned to what he says,
tears streaming down my troubled face,
like healing balm to keep my voice;
raise it fierce, soft and sweet,
grateful for the gifts he brings,
oh, Ray, you mean so much to me.

Emily Cloward © 2018

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