A voice,
Born young and weak,
Squealing with fragility,
In time gains form and shape,
Strength and purpose,
Tone and pace.
The voice grows,
Discovers words of love and hope,
Verses of faith and confidence,
The meaning of truth and honor,
Cost of falsehood and dishonesty,
The elements of life.
The voice may sing,
Or curse at times,
It may promise tall mountains,
Or set duplicitous traps,
It is the horn of its master,
Through life on end.
Out in public,
And inside a home,
On giant stages,
And tiny rooms,
In front of masses,
Or behind a poll curtain,
At every place,
It is always heard.
Add one to others,
And form the voice of many,
To sound say of a nation,
Its future and fate,
Leave one voice out,
The masses are muted.
Sans soapbox or bullhorn,
The voices still echo,
In hallways and boardrooms,
At home over sinks,
Displayed on screen color,
On paper and print.
The future is silent,
Its path yet to set,
Your voice is the rudder,
The wings and the jet,
Have say in the journey,
Take charge of the wheel,
No place for the back seat,
It is now time to lead.