The world was dead.
I heard nothing, no sound, no slightest disruption
But that voice inside my head. And it echoed words.
Words that were poetry;
Written words, but more than that
They were alive.
Alive, and whispering to me
The secrets I have always longed to fathom
The mysteries that nothing else revealed.
One author. One poem. One moment.
And I was lost myself
In a world from which I would never return
A world of poetry.
A world of words, and more than that
Of music.
This legacy is mine
I heard a voice from years ago
Speak to me
In words, and more than words.
And now I am the conjurer, the voice inside your head
Whispering in words
And music.
The secrets that can not be told in anything
But poetry.