Poem for Workshop

Here's my poem about the act of reading/writing/etc. for next time. Thanks!
Eve

Within Story

Each born
without. Outside.
Knocking. Babbling.
Talking. Telling tales.
Can you see? Do you hear?
As I do? On my frequency?
We may never know.
So,
tell me again.
Tell me a story.
If I light a candle and listen,
you’ll take me places;
we won’t be able to help it.

If we go there.
We’ll be them.
We’ll know that.
If this night is silent,
you have no stories to tell me,
I will read out-loud.
And we will go
within those paper walls,
tattooed in the calligraphy of other’s lives,
polarized to make sense of reality.
We’d be together at least,
if seeing separate stories
through alternating inner vantage points.
We may never know how different our views.
Take this as your consolation,
and not your bane.
The rhythm of my voice becomes their voices,
authors dead yet growing, a bodiless swell,
like ever-expanding radio signals
echoing through space.
The reaction to a drop in the bucket.
Open to the knock. Let them in.
It’s cold outside.
Light a fire. Gather round.
Tell it.
Everything listens.
Everything sings.