Strings

They hear me even though 

no one else cares to listen.

They convey to my ears what heaven is like 

and all I can reply with is musings

of hell, 

which sound like parchment paper cracking 

released from the prison 

of thousand year old jars.

But they observe patiently 

and wait for their turn to speak, 

and when they do I fall to my knees

because I realize I am insignificant

in an omnipotent way.

Their power is trapped and I

am the only one who can set it free.

My parchment voice 

is silenced.

They need to be heard.

Not me.