The Sound Of Poetry Poem by Micah Krahn

Come my child and let me show you a garden of melodies. For not far from where we are is a scared, hurt, wretchedly twisted and rusted instrument. She has no name and her destiny is not known yet to her.

She sits over yonder, she is but to the naked eye an in adamant golden oak violin sitting on a lonely stationary swing set.

Through all the decades of all four seasons she lay motionless until one day; upon utter chance I discovered her and told her of all the dull colourless worlds I had seen.

A voiceless thought interrupted my detailed voyages of journeys once sought. She spoke and said, if only I could see these places you have seen, only then would my eyes be unblinded from the untruths of this deadened world. I am but a blind instrument.


Upon telling her that she had all that she needed to see the beauty all around her, she told me she was blind.Faith is all the sight you will need, believe that it is so. And it will be.


Truth and belief cannot be seen, it can only be felt and heard. Sight is for the unbeliever. She had but only try. And so she did. Striking a cord witnessing what one tiny twang of rhythmic melody looked like. The first wasn't pretty but screeched more like a scream. But for her it was music to her soul.


I sat with her from Spring to the end of Summer. Play for me the sights of Autumn.. This was her destiny. when the leaves take flight and begin to glow from green to orangish gold to brownish red.


All Autumn long she lived alive as she ever played her lifesong; her angelic symphony.


Her life, no matter how insignificant can change the world. Her soul was the sound of poetry.