A Voice In The Walls

There's a voice inside the walls

that knows my name before I'm called,

that finds me in the practice rooms

the hour everyone's gone home.

It never asks me where I'm from.

It never asks me anything —

again.

It only ever says: again.

A voice in the walls,

kind as candlelight,

patient as the dust —

and it only ever asks

for everything, politely.

It knew my range before I did.

It heard the note I hide behind

and named it like a doctor would —

gently, and with plans.

The others say this house is old

and old stone talks. Perhaps.

Higher.

Once more. For me.

A voice in the walls,

warm as a lit window,

sure as winter coming —

and it only ever asks

for everything, politely.

And politely, and politely —

And I know how this should frighten me.

I can hear the shape of frightening.

But no one's ever listened —

no one's ever listened like this.

A voice in the walls,

kind as candlelight,

and it only ever asked

for everything, politely —

and I answered.