Enigma

Poet

Words live and die
Words to tell, words to hush
Words live in me
Words live in us

My brown suede flats tapped the ground of the hallway. It was long and winding, like a passage to another earth.

Gold and silver accents adorned the walls, along with curios adding to the mysterious haze of emotion. I continued my urgent pace, knowing the rhythm of my verses would be interrupted if I stopped.

I turned the corner, looking at the door ahead. It was inconspicuous, but it held more metaphor than I had experienced in my life as a whole. I placed my hand firmly on the doorknob, looking at the reflective window into the room before me. It was covered, but I could see myself clearly. My blonde curls and quiet glasses seemed innocent and harmless, but my eyes were a sight to be reckoned with. The grey blue orbs reflected my desire and determination, the alliteration in my implications. I took one last look at myself and then turned the knob, quietly slipping into the room before me.

It was dimly lit, but I could see everything. The podium, the people, the chairs. They were written like books filled with invisible ink; brimming with words and phrases that nobody was able to read but their own hearts.

I briskly walked up to the podium. I was the preacher, and they were my congregation. I was not necessarily religious, but I had a message, cold and sharp like steel on bare skin.

I looked silently at first, observing them. They were like me, quiet, unassuming, cold. The air was cool, reflecting my disposition but ignoring my true feelings. I cleared my throat silently, opening my proclamation, and beginning to speak.

Bird of a feather
Queen of a throne
A magician and a hat
A farmers crop to be sown

Tools are we
Made for the use of the queen
The bird, the farmer, the magician
Oppress us to serve their grievance

Free yourself, free eachother
The bird cannot fly without a feather
The queen has no power, the farmer no crop
The powerful are nothing without the poets together

I articulated my words quietly, spinning webs of thought to catch small intellects. The words floated on the breeze, the rhythm of my breathing matching that of my words.

The congregation stood, hearing the scripture and the word of a prophet. I have spoken my word, take it as law and stand.

The room turned to happiness as I spoke. I saw him in the crowd, and then he was close. Judah had found me, and his betrayal was ever coming.

I moved my blonde curls out of my face. I was not a religious woman, nor had I ever been. My religion is the poetry and my belief is in words. Religion is the only way to describe it; we were all devoted.

Judah pounced on me like a lion. I knew not his name, but I could tell his courage. I slumped, the steely knife of my own tongue now buried deep in my back.

"Behold, the poet. She has been broken by her own words and ruined by her prophecy."

With that, it was over. I'm sure there would be no headline of my death. The magician, queen, farmer, and bird had ended my scripture.

If I learned one thing from my life, I learned that silence may be mankind's greatest weakness.

My words were my weapon, and in the end, I was killed by a dagger of my own creation.