Behind Her Iron Door

At least there’s heart
in my artistry.
For, it seems my pumping part
has departed me.
Still, they say,
“How sad could she be,
when the words seem to leave,
her lips like a lion’s roar?”
You see,
there’s this behind her iron door.
A resounding downbeat,
deep inside the house.
More than a mere attic owl
or confounded sounding mouse.
But, along to its wrongful rhythms,
she played some solemn songs,
and with them,
found mountains of freedom fire,
underneath her blouse.
So she planted feet,
out in the street,
and let her flames engulf the house.