Odd how the words

Are locked in my throat

Like my vocal cords

Have frozen

In the ice of emotion unspoken

But they pour onto paper

As though my fingers

Can strum them into being

Playing them

Like so many chords

Major and minor

And sometimes greatly diminished

This strange music flows

From my heart

All the fears twisted and wrapped

Within fragile hope

I long to cling to magic

While men of science and economy

Grind my dreams beneath

Their well-appointed heels

Still this strange music

Spreads across the night

Calling like to like

In a bizarre sorcery

Made of ink and paper

And generations of mystics

Coursing through my veins – Caroline A. Slee