Archive
03/17/09 - (3)
My Voice
For more years than I can hardly be expected to remember, I've witnessed my right hand's thumb and first two fingers Gripping a pen, guiding it across paper, as I do tonight — A Rosetta stone translating my ideas for, at best, posterity, At worst, all-too-aloof and inconsequential anonymity.
And I've taken it in stride — all the silence, The isolation, insularity, reclusivity requisite to writing, Composing verses able to soar symbolically, metaphorically, With nothing more important than recording the heart's genius, Its mysterious notes scoring the lyrical secrets of the universe.
Alone with my resident ghosts, in this empty restaurant, I give my psyche, once again, unrestricted permission To set free its immeasurable measures of self-expression, That it and I, conspiring with omniscience, Might present man with a new cosmos: my sui generis voice.
03/17/09 - (3)
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