Inspired by quote by J.K. Rowling "To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure." for the contest.
We steal from the mouths of strangers, pluck vowels like fruit from someone else's tree, and call it harvest. Call it homage. The dead speak louder than we do, their sentences polished smooth by a thousand tongues, worn into grooves we trace with our own breath. I lift a phrase like lifting a stone from a river, still wet with another writer's meanings, and press it into the architecture of my own grief. "To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.” But whose mind? Whose death? The words belong to everyone now, to no one, a key passed hand to hand until the metal warms, until we forget who first turned the lock. Perhaps all poetry is borrowed, each word a ghost we summon, each line a seance where the living learn to speak in the voices of those who wrote the world before us.
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