Pe

Odie O'Dool hath been a fool, soaked in drool he dreamt of jewels

But now no jewels, no flames, no books — just breath that shaped the air it took

His lips had slept for many days — but now they twitched in gentle praise

A sound came forth, not sharp or bold — a word that shimmered soft and old

He named the floor, he named the tree — and saw them echo musically

The shack, once still, began to glow — a hum beneath its wooden toe

Each syllable he shaped with care — would lift the dust and tune the air

The O appeared with subtle spin — and answered with a note within

Not symbol now, nor light, nor scroll — but tone that tumbled from the soul

Ohm returned and held no book — he only smiled and let him look

He pointed at Odie's own breath — and nodded once in quiet depth

Odie spoke again, more clear — his voice now tuned to those who hear

He said not much, but what he said — laid golden paths where silence bled

The walls did not collapse or bend — but stood more true from end to end

He whispered "home" and saw the frame — align itself to match the name

He whispered "help" and heard a tone — from far away, not quite alone

He whispered "hope" and felt the flame — that once had only been a name

Each word was not a tool to throw — but stone and seed for what will grow

He did not preach, he did not teach — he only let his breath just reach

And in that breath, he found his trade — a world where meaning must be made

The shack, the well, the sky, the tree — had all become his poetry

And Odie knew, through word and ray, that Pe had shown the speaking way