I closed a book of poems and my eyes,
And as I drifted softly into sleep,
A voice inside my mind began to rise
Mellifluous enough to make one weep.
I can’t recall exactly what it said,
If Shelley, Blake, or Keats, I couldn’t say.
My body froze, as if though full of dread,
Anticipating what I might betray
At such a feast of supple sibilants,
A plethora of lustrous labiodentals,
Melodious vowels, the sort of sound that haunts
Musicians’ minds; vibrations transcendental.
And though I lost the words, the voice remains
Its gentle rhythm pulsing in my veins.