drawn from a string
unseen notes invite
a muse, his voice
echoes in the hall
within those ancient walls
as it spreads through mind and soul
sets its roots deep, and
it holds as new poets awaken
then slip by, waste in time, and
only then does a hand steady
and commit those hardened words
to fresh pressed paper
that would last |
|
new tongues give birth to
a tale told countless times by
the young and old, the skilled
and not. I hold it now, unlike
the listeners past. I read slowly
silently and wonder how it
came to be, about those
who conceive of these works which
settle their listeners.
only then do stories unravel
for crowds. I long to cast
a single line, streaking ink across the page
or even to hear another's |