The Arrival of Poetry

And it was at that age, an unmarked chapter in the book of life, when poetry arrived. It came unannounced, a silent whisperer seeking me out, a wanderer from realms unknown. Was it birthed from the cold embrace of winter, or did it emerge from the murmuring depths of a river? Its origins were a mystery, cloaked in the enigma of the elements.

I cannot recount how or when it found me, for it was neither a voice that called out nor a word inscribed upon the air. It was not the hush of silence that precedes the storm. Rather, it was as if the very street beneath my feet had spoken, the cobblestones and pavement conjuring spells of verse and rhyme.

From the tangled branches of night, where dreams roost like unseen birds, it summoned me. It set me apart abruptly from the others, those who walked beside me, oblivious to the call that resonated in my soul. Amidst the violent fires of twilight passions or in the solitude of a return journey to self, poetry came.

There, in the midst of chaos and calm, I stood faceless, a canvas awaiting the painter’s touch. And touch me it did, with hands made of metaphors and similes, painting my essence with the hues of emotion, and thought. In that moment, I was transformed, no longer a mere spectator but a vessel of expression, a conduit for the beauty and tragedy that dances within the lines of poetry.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer