Every dream, every hope, every fear unheard- silently hidden within one's self. A soft, slow grumble tumbling up and courageously out- voiced through lead and chalk, ink and paper.
No longer a thought.
No longer a dream, a hope, a fear.
It is now a word.
It is now a feeling, a smile, a tear.
It is read and shared. It is softly cherished and loudly shaking the ground of this place.
It is old and worn with stains and tatters. It is new and unheard of- changing shape, changing face.
It is beautiful and hideous. It is of truth and lies.
It is the human spirit contained in an uproar of bold lines and swirls- the letters of the alphabet.
It is the open space of heart and mind. It is the strangling net of Earth and time.
It is beyond all things visible and within all things felt. Not felt by hands, it is felt by the heart.
Some say it is real, others say it is of the mist. But it is here.
It is a poem. It is a story.
It is written and heard: a list of every piece used to create something full.
It is something you need to know. It is assurance, doubt, a mirror, a window.
It is the lull of our animal, tempting and ashamed. It is the calm of our humane, humble and contained.
It is you in a stanza. It is me in a sentence.
It is the future. It is the past. It is the present slow yet fast in awakening parts of myself and this world. The parts previously unheard- silently hidden within one's self.
It is the swim of a tadpole, the run of a tiger. It is the climb of an ant, the flight of a bird. It is all why I choose to write.
I write, therefore I am heard.