It’s just me and a drum. My call goes out and the echo reverberates on the walls. Canvas of white bouncing sounds off the tall dome. I carry my drum, I carry my drum.
Sometimes the drum is too heavy. Sometimes I march in a line. Mostly though, I march in place. I beat my drum. I beat my drum.
Some of us like beating our own drum. Others of us are simply weary from carrying the damn thing.
My drum is my port in the storm. Guide me, take me, almost sweeping me away. But I still stand here. My feet are still rooted to the ground. Bang goes the drum. Bang goes the drum.
Some days, the drum is light. I beat to my own music, I sashay with the best of them. My fingers are nimble, and the exhilaration takes flight.
But there are days when beating my own drum is more than I can bear. Heavy as an elephant, grey and unyielding. A cathartic mass that will not give me any peace. No energy for my drum. No energy for my drum.
It’s just me and my drum. I continue to march. One foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other…