The silence of poetry stings
in a dry mouth filled with fear,
And regret
that grows with every smile,
blush, and signal from the wilting
petals, but even dew
drops falling from an Iris
fail to wet dry wells.

The flower will die of neglect
but there are dozens waiting
to take its place.

Poetry will never forget
the piles of withered brown
stems, hardened thorns
and blackened petals

but still will never speak
for a tongue that quakes
behind its pearly prison.