Poem for the Soul

The low hum of a minor key
Sings in my brain
Dark in color, 
But more free than me. 

Confined to the chains of tears and mirrors, 
Warped into a mirage that hungers for solitude.
Wallowing in the pit of tangled fears, 
Convinced of an endless interlude. 

Alack, the tears are stained to rust,
and a soul of emancipation pounds in its numb cage. 
Alack, the minor key is lust,
And the chime of the clock says it's time to pay. 

For the melody of the drums must go on, 
So now, here I am,
And I sing this song.