I see it in the stage lights

It is in the strains of the tuning orchestra

It is in the scuff marks of character shoes

It is in the dog-eared, battle worn, script

Highlighted to hell and back


I see it in the back corner of the library

The hunchback, the boy wizard, the countess,

The convict who broke a window

the man who hears the heartbeat

Who reveal themselves page by page


I hear it in my car, on the way home from school

The primadonna rise and fall of the aria

The unabashed agression of a snarling guitar

The swirling color palette of a remembered dream

The remembered escapades of a man who fell to earth


I find what I need most is inspiration

From those who can talk to me even though they may be dead

The Hugo who uses so many words to express the succinct truth

The Miranda who rewrites my history book, the words leaping at me with life

Because all good stories have the power to inspire, and good stories never die


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