Great Explorers

I asked a man who he was,

And I got his name.

I asked what he does,

He said whatever pays.

 

I inquired, ‘What do you love?’,

So he shared his heart.

Broken and mended,

A woven piece of art.

 

He pulled a notebook,

From his pocket.

He said, ‘I write my thoughts,

And then I lock it.’,

 

He paused, then opened,

Page fifteen,

And I saw a thought,

I had never seen.

 

Written there,

In wet, fresh ink,

Not a day old,

Or so I think,

 

Some words that moved me,

Deep inside,

Resided right there,

Black on white.

 

‘Touched to the soul?’,

The stranger asked.

‘To the soul,’ I said.

‘To the soul and past.’

 

The space between,

His voice and mine,

Grew quiet, I felt,

Anticipation rise.

 

‘I hadn’t thought of it,

That way.

I must confess,’

I hear me say.

 

‘Nor I’,

The stranger thinks out loud,

Accompanied by,

A ripping sound.

 

The page no longer,

In his book,

But held by the man,

In the hand I shook.

 

We parted ways,

I pulled my collar high,

The rain set in,

And flashing light.

 

And I clenched that paper,

As I walked,

With the stranger’s thoughts,

For me, unlocked.

 

I read it time,

And time again,

Under my breath,

Like a secret:

 

'Just as new land by great explorers,

Nothing is invented, only discovered.

For the creator’s creation is so profound,

The idea exists and must merely be found.'