The voice

It’s a strange kind of madness, really,

To be caught, not by glances or the sway of a frame,

But by the resonance of syllables,

The architecture of sentences.

Imagine it:

No porcelain cheek, no chiseled jaw to exalt—

Just a voice, spinning threads of thought,

A melody shaped in ideas,

Carving space in the air,

And suddenly, you’re riveted.

Who falls for a cadence?

A rhythm? A pause just slightly too long?

Yet here I stand,

More enamoured by punctuation

Than pigmentation.

Is it vanity’s undoing, this peculiar pull?

To trade cheekbones for clever retorts,

To weigh a personality’s brilliance

Above the symmetry of a brow?

But what symmetry lives in laughter?

What artistry in wit?

No, this—this is not about beauty.

It’s about a mind unmasking itself

And inviting yours to dance.

And isn’t it absurd?

This notion that a voice—just a voice—

Can etch itself into your soul

While the face remains

Utterly irrelevant.