The singer’s crowd

dwindled to a face unlooking
at him, but at the specter that only is
the crowd’s. The singer is gone.

The singer was theirs. Now he’s fallen
into fragments. The crowd is bound
to itself, becomes a single mind.

This mind listens, waits, but the old
man is not the singer. And the past
doesn’t dance into substance.

But the singer sings the unknown
song, unslipping into the mind that is only
felt by the echoes it makes.

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