I saw a book when I was young,
the words weren’t read, they were sung.

It sang to me like the bird calls the sky,
like the flower calls the cloud to call the rain when it’s dry.

It sang to me like the sand calls the waves,
like hollow calls empty and echos call caves.

It sang to me like stars call lovers,
like pain calls tears and children call mothers.

That book sang a note and it’s tune was mine,
but my vision went black, and then I was blind.

It sang to me like pens call writers,
like paint calls painters and fire calls lighters.

It sang to me like rivers call brooks,
like shells call crabs and crime calls the crook.

It sang to me like the wind calls the leaves,
like the grass calls the dirt and the trees call the breeze.

The book then sang another note,
and then its song was in my throat.

It sang to me like glass calls the flame,
like small calls to delicate and anger calls to blame.

It sang to me like youth calls to summer,
like winter calls to darkness and skin calls to umber.

It sang to me like the bloom calls the bee,
like the webs call the spider and grief calls to me.

By then, the book and I were the same,
and it sang to me, it sang my name!

It sang to me like frost calls the bite,
like winter calls snow and day calls the light.

It sang to me like the hammer calls nails,
like alone calls to no one and fairies call tales.

It sang to me like the mind calls the game,
like fresh calls death, and wild calls to tame.

The book’s tune had seized my heart,
it pinched and twisted ‘til I gave a start.

It sang to me like dirt calls to grime,
like red calls lips and the poet calls the rhyme.

It sang to me like hunger calls cold,
like boredom calls evil and rage calls bold.

It sang to me like lace calls the doll,
like camera calls to click and quiet calls to small.

The book held me tight, and I thought I might die,
but then it let go, and I saw the world’s lie.

It sang to me like waiting calls fear,
like there calls to here and far calls to near.

It sang to me like the melody calls the tune,
like red calls to Mars to call the sun to call the moon.

It sang to me like bleed calls to weep,
like black calls the widow and the seas call to deep.

I cried to the book and it wept in return,
and like two broken souls, we started to burn.

It sang to me like pinch calls to poke,
like autumn calls fire to call embers and smoke.

It sang to me like sadness calls blue,
like the genius calls monotony and diligence calls due.

It sang to me like trust calls betray,
like friend calls to enemy and go calls away.

Together we burned, the book and I,
but we sang forever, and we didn’t cry.

It sang to me like tattoos call to skin,
like waxing calls waning and loud calls to din.

It sang to me like themes call motifs,
like rope calls to hang and faith calls beliefs.

It sang to me like the pupil calls the iris,
like watching calls seeing and existential calls crisis.

The song rang clear, a tune so free,
and one last time, the book sang to me.