"Her Voice" by Bobby Torpey

Her voice was an instrument of cold, hard eloquence.
And every time she sang, the air carried it with the plaintive dirge of unfulfilled promise.
Her lineage was a long and proud one;
Her name had, for many generations, been her symbol of dignity, passion and beauty.
The days of heroic song ended with her.
For though her larynx would make the notes, her soul could not make the music.
She possessed not the gift, but merely the skill.

God never used her as his trumpet.
She couldn't move minds or stir souls.
Therefore she became, through no fault of her own, the object of scorn and derision.
And her name fell into disrepute.
And her large, preordained, audience shrank to nothing, and she lived alone;
And she died alone...