Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Purple Man of Music

Who let them in,
these men with knives
who came and cut down the wild
who came and ripped down the free flowing green
while I was in Memphis
burying the dead?
The black,
the purple
man of music
who’s every breath was untamed
and uncertain,
who saw music
in the air
and sang words from God.
Who came?
How did they get in,
these men,
these simpletons,
who could not see the beauty
before their eyes?
They hacked and sawed,
and spat,
and left,
like men on a battlefield
leaving the bloody carnage behind.
Who let them in?
Not I.
I gather the limbs in my hands
and hold them to my chest,
breathe in the smell of dying honeysuckle
rotting in the sun
and cry.
Don’t they know what they have done?
That which is wild should always
remain
wild.