Voice that I Heard

Peeking out from under

the mass pile of used blankets

that I've been living under so comfortably,

I saw nothing but wrecked trains and crashed planes.

But the sirens and public warnings were all drowned out

by a voice that built all buildings.

I sat stony-faced on the outskirts of freedom—

hands frozen, nose sunburnt, hair long,

gazing at the Mayan calendar,

wishing the end would already come.

When suddenly it was ripped in half,

by a voice that abolishes all endings.

So I crawled past the door which had kept me

so undeniably alone, so irrefutably deaf,

and followed it all the way past the curb on my street,

and past the leaves I once crumpled in my hand,

lifted me up from my hands and knees

by a voice that heals wounds, fresh and old.

Why should this voice, so high,

want to be a part of this boy, so low.

This Voice that I Heard, I just can't deny,

and that's the only thing that I know.