Does my voice look at itself in the mirror
and see eyes lost in a desert
where butterflies
welcome one drop of rain,
or eyes that dance
inside a cup full of yesterdays
I cannot get back again?

Are there words my voice hears
that capture my heart
like music
and make me learn
my own path to walk,
existing inside of the joy
I find on a blank page
where my ink whispers to talk?

Could my voice be beautiful as a picture
painted inside a quiet heart
reaching out to be heard
time and time again
as if it walks seeking peace
inside of my every single word?

My voice looks at itself in the mirror
and sees that time is precious
in these eyes daring to look back
the same,
it picks up my pen
like a long lost friend
who never forgets my name.

My voice is not lost in a desert
bound eternally
to seek out the rain
nor does it dance
inside a cup full of yesterday.  
It sings across these blank pages
whispering
in the ink of my ways.