A Hot Cup of Poetry

History

The crackling of pages

Familiar song to my ears

Pale ocher I see in my deepest of dreams

Ink shall be spilled, everything to be saved

Betrayal, suspense, conspiracy

It's a fever, a tune

Playing while my hands tremble

Every time they're still brushing the same exact place

Where legends have touched, the paper enchased

So many secrets

In only some are unearthed

I seek, I comb, I hunt them down

Continuing to test my ability

History is daunting, muddled yet clear

Past the boredom and the grade

It's a script, it's a voice, yet still a mystery

For how can someone that has died

Make me feel utterly alive?