My Mistress wakes me in the night

The day I grew ugly my words grew strong. My cheek grew plain and they lifted and swelled and raised so high I could not see. They moved beyond I could not hear. And as the years felled me, the words defy this master Time, and they are buoyant. They lift out of the shell, that could crumble at the wrong touch, a bump in the night, and a shock of grey, and they haunt me with verdure.

They are light and incandescent as my skin fades. And they breathe meaning and order into each letter that forms their pleasure as my own breath stumbles beneath my chest. There is life beyond life, in these words. Life beyond death that not "may," but "will."

And where are you, you say? I am waiting for the order, mistress to my master of words. They suck their fill from me, without a worry as to when. Though I am in the midst of a mid-night's sleep, they will be heard. They point and gesture from inside the dreams of sleep and knock on my brain until I am wakened and my fingers itch.

The words breathe and grow stronger as I fail. And they will be the death of me, but will leave me with one last sentence before I roll over and lie down. One last letter will hurl itself out of me, Herculean in it's effort, before I go quiet. My mistress, master of the letters, will be heard.