To breathe in phrases never said,
How woeful is the drowning.
To bleed only unspoken thoughts,
How painful is the sting.
No longer is my body filled with
Blood and bone and bile,
Only dances we will never dance
And songs we’ll never sing.

- p. winter

•~

my pencil swirls 'round in figure eights 
      looking for the rhythm 
the flow of words that feel just right 
        that can shed light 
on things that lack clarity 
  that have me questioning
questioning

~•