Friday, January 27, 2017


The quiet
Silent movements
Burn me- strong
When they have been left,
Too long, unattended.
This sound-less template
Beckons my being
In its entirety.
I belong to the order of silence
And all things remained unspoken.

Is this prudent
To open a cascading venue
Of wailing?
From a trickle to a whisper
A whine to a wail
I cry in indelible strokes
To any surface that will listen
Any substrate that will welcome
The graceful flow
Of all my deft ability
Crafted carefully, as time wore on.
I am here now
Still perched
Betwixt the arrow and the gap
Of a precipice known too well.

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