Traveling at a high rate of speed
Like the wings of a humming bird,
From fruitful melodies
And higher cliffs,
Where music reached into the clouds
And mingled with the
Voices of the rain,
It followed me into the darkness
And touched my silent wits,
Myself without substance or worth,
A pebble washed up upon the shore,
And illuminated my soul
With a liquid flame
And drew open the
Curtains of the universe
As I peeked into its pulsating heart
And saw the alpha and the omega,
The gardens of pure thought,
Voices not of this world
But of a sound that touched my spine.
As I wrote the first word
I could sense that my hand
Didn’t belong to me.
It was part of another planet,
A sphere of dreams and higher thought.
I was a genius who knew nothing.
I could feel the words
Flowing into my body,
My prison, my inhibitions, my world,
Hammering them into my mind,
My child of seasoned thought,
Looking into the world with big eyes.
I, of inherited thought,
A manufactured genius,
A child still lost in the wilderness,
Tried to understand what I wrote
As I stood amazed at
What the music did to me.