From the busy skies, or bellowing streets,
or whistling winds, or forest nymphs,
or cathartic fires, or emancipated souls,
someone or something picked me out,
me among the crowded streets,
a speck hidden among the multitudes,
me a massive target, bigger than life,
to select me for what I know not,
my eyes looking at my shuffling feet,
my mind wandering into the pale blue sky,
emptied of all thought and denial,
my little self in tune with impartiality,
contented with my easy shuffling.
Then it came to me and rattled my bones,
a voice, and arrow that pierced my spine,
an epiphany that I wasn’t looking for,
that blinded me and took me upon a journey.
A euphonic river flowed into my soul,
repeated verses and sonnets in my ears,
and dragged me into dark ally ways,
along stately thoroughfares,
manicured gardens, and into a lofted cathedral
where I awoke and looked around
at the new me, the me laden with heavy words,
the me with new wings to take me wherever,
and the me that I thought I would never be.
Why someone is selected is a mystery.
Poetry is a non-discriminate spirit that
looks for anyone to enter into.

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Nelson D Reyes
almost 2 years

Hmm...come to think of it...poetry is the language of our soul, the language of life after life, of time “that looks for anyone to enter into”. Shades of immortality,
Not unlike music, another universal language of time.

Like. Thanks Robert.

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Nelson D Reyes

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