Finding A Voice

The air was dry.

I tried to speak.

To call for help.

But I could not.

The words were gone.

 

I was stranded; alone.

Sand beneath my feet.

Extending for countless miles.

Time itself slipped away.

Like my elongated silhouette.

 

A traveler found me.

He was walking alone.

 

"I bear great knowledge."

He spoke to me.

"I must share it,

Before it's too late." 

 

His eyes met mine.

 

"Place your hand over your heart.

That feeling in your chest,

Your heart beating,

The very sound indicating life,

Is the rhythm that exists inside of you."

 

I still said nothing.

 

"Just like the uniqueness of your heartbeat,

Writing should have a rhythm.

It should ebb and  f  l  o  w and 

                                 caress the emotions of another.

Let your heart guide you,

       Let your 

               f e e l i n g s

Take jurisdiction over purpose."

 

And then he disappeared.

Swallowed by the sand.

 

The landscape resumed uniformity.

 

I never forgot him.

I continued venturing onward.

 

He reminded me of the gift of expression.

The gift of writing,

                              composing.

 

Over time.

Countless sentences have been spoken.

Countless conversations have been had.

Countless novels have been written.

 

Each one,

Utilizing a limiting number of letters, characters.

Anybody has the power to construe these characters, 

Into a symphony of words that nobody else has sung. 

 

I can build sand castles with letters.

 

Create monuments

IMPOSING ARCHITECTURE,

Or just a simple home.

 

"......Expression." 

         I whispered.

Into the vast desert. 

 

I found my voice.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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