The scribe writes alone
By themselves
On a blank paper landscape
Or an electronic desert
Emotional glyphs
Disguised as inspiration
Ideas unborn
Await the hands of
An inspired voice to give
Life manifested in words.
It is a solitary existence
This phenomenon
A place of raw feelings
Syllables resonating
Not dormant
Waiting to rise up
A revolution of expression
A construction of conscience
A revelation of dreams
On a precipice of
Sounds spinning phrases.
At 3 a.m. I stare into space
And suddenly it comes
Arriving without fanfare
As a face with no name
A silent message
Takes shape
Out of liquid language
Never said or sung before
Lyrical and rhythmic
A labor of love, a fusion
Of passion and truth,
Prose and poetry.
Copyright © 2021 Charles Edward York
No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*