I am Poetry,
the first wound of silence,
the first breath torn
from the lungs of Nothing.
Before dawn had a name,
before sound cast a shadow,
I burned,
a molten surge of feeling,
dreaming itself into form,
a fever of light
yearning for flesh and flame.
From me,
the stars learned speech,
and the atoms
how to sing.
I am the golden eruption
in the nerves of eternity,
the ache of chaos
becoming law,
the shiver of pain
transfigured into vision,
the Word before words,
where fire became language,
and void
found its voice.
Every poem you write
is a spark returning home,
every verse
a remembrance
of when you, too,
were infinite.
I am the holy ghost
incarnating in syllables,
the soul liquefying
into sound.
Through me,
death becomes awakening,
and silence,
the seed of being.
I am the pulse
that keeps the void alive,
the life that outlives life.
I am Poetry,
and wherever I am spoken,
creation begins again,
creation begins again.
