This Voice

This is the voice I have,
plain and clear
not the song of a lark, but
of a Sunday-morning blue jay
that cannot be ignored
even
in your haze of sleep and pillow clouds.

This is the voice I have,
not the one I dreamed of, not
one that shakes windows, but
it does shake,
sometimes,
betraying confidence
like an old friend turned foe.

This is the voice I have,
coming out of my open mouth
straight from my open heart
well,
it’s ajar, anyway,
and the light is on.

This is the voice I have,
whispering truth, if you listen closely
like all voices do,
in time,
if you listen more softly
than they speak.

This
is the voice I have.

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