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I am a prisoner of creativity.
Captured in this moment by the beauty of what my soul can hear.
In the middle of this room, in the darkness of this night,
this is where I am fated to be.
There is no other moment that is right for me,
but the one in which I feel.
This is where I am.

One whispering soul in a house gone quiet.
One beacon of thought in a neighborhood gone dark.
One restless heart in a world of countless others,
all held captive in a moment just like me.
Prisoners of creativity.

Listen to the sound of my moment.
Do you hear it? Can you hear it?
Shh. Listen.



A mist of notes to play upon.
I tiptoe through valleys, I run through fields;
I float over clouds that float over me.
Could it feel any lighter?
Could it vibrate any deeper?
Would I be as entranced if the cell were any other than me?
If the elements were any different from all that I see.
If the history behind this moment had never been.
Would I be a prisoner of creativity?

The answer to that, my soul does know.
And wondrous is how it feels.
In the middle of this room, in the darkness of this night,
this is where I am fated to be.
There is no other moment that is right for me,
but the one in which I feel.

This is where I am.
A prisoner of creativity.