Epiphany

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.