When the words will reach,
Will speak,
What voice will ring?
The voice of the hidden
Who dedicate themselves
To hiding in plain sight
Making their home
In other people,
Their lives
Of other lives.
The voice of the warhead
Who battles for pride
Though
No one is proud
Nor the victor
Victorious,
But held with self-doubt.
The voice of the mute -
Selective of course.
Reminding others that the
Silence they bare
Seeks to scold them.
The voice of the
Starving child, overfed
With humility. The one
Whose nibbles were not enough
To break the chains round
His ankles, rather those
Pearly whites of his, once
Replaced by yellow commodities.
The voice of the Concubine
Whose lust has been traded for more lust
Whose dresswear daily resembles
Peace by piece, bit and bit,
Her master, whose love of himself
So great, he seeks himself in her.
The voice of the somnambulist
Who is weary of dance
And game.
Who if awoken
In the middle of his act
Will not know it.