55b

One who came from nothing, one
From only speech, I am one
Of those creator mischief
Makers, not the ones behind
The curtains, not the humbugs
Who float away on hot air,
But one of those washed ashore,

Signifying other lands
Might exist unvisited
Or anyway might exist.
My every word has purpose,
If only to keep you close,
Clutching the pulse in your chest,
Anxious for what happens next.