Often, you seem to be writing for me
Bitter ethical pangs quickly ensue;
The blank page is crowded; how can this be?
I am but your instrument: it’s all you
Hearing voices is cause for real concern;
What about hearing just one, which you love?
If that voice teaches, and you wish to learn,
And it does not emanate from above
Or below, but from within, like a bell
That I am has been struck, and now it rings
And when the page is a silent, white hell
That voice appears, and an inky map sings
One vowel divides demon from daemon
It matters not, for your voice I rely on
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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