With a breath soft as velvet the tin man blows his muted trumpet.
From deep within a solitary note that cries like a new born kitten unfolds.
It builds as his cheeks bulge and his eyes stare blankly at the world in front of him.
Lost within a story rich with tears of laughter and pain the music erupts,
He remembers....
The street where he grew up pitching pennies to break the mood.
The boys singing round a fire can on a cold December morn.
The years of practice while his friends played breathed life into his horn.
As his music echoes off the walls his spirit ignites, the song straight from his heart.
He takes a pause, and then a breath, and once again the lament of his trumpet starts.
The tin man blows, the horn is his voice, the notes have something to say.
He feels alive with the brass in his hands, his fingers leading the way.
With singular charm his life is exposed with each breath, each mouthful of air.
As the last note fades his story is told, the people sit there and stare.
In a dark smoke filled room a trumpeter cries so pure his voice has found,
a messenger that tells a tale without words, a tear in every sound.
