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.'
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