Like others, there was a time the only voice I heard was my own
In first person. I sang my own tune; danced to my own beat;
In syncopated rhythm to the fearful doubts of who I was
And who I would become. Only my destiny lay in the crucifixion of ego;
Execution by lethal surrender to my Creator, the catalyst of my fountainhead.
In my death, I was resurrected, from grave disappointments,
Entombed in a way of life the world calls gracious living;
Embalmed in fluid self induced, prepared for viewing to passersby,
Who themselves walk in death, while viewing the corpses of others
Who walk in death and so on, until life became a self parody of delusion.
But as fate ordained, I singled out Your Voice through the sounds of traffic
And pondered it's resonating effect on my restless state of mind;
Never forgetting, yet never receiving my purpose, until I saw my hereafter;
A living death amongst the masses and I swiftly surrendered myself to your call.
I no longer hear myself now...inside. Only sounds of precious few in silent prayer!