Slowly, it starts.
Boiling,
Rising,
Seeping through the cracks. With heart
clawing up my throat,
you dance on the tip of my tongue;
your voice 'round mine like flesh on bone.
With your reflection sewn to my feet I cannot escape you.
You are weaved fabric from a familiar land;
a veil that strangles and blinds.
But there will come a time
when I will bite your silver tongue from my mind;
f  l  a  y
             y    o    u    r
                                s      k      i      n
from my bones.
I will be heard
(the ringing in your ear)
"You were never welcome here."

silence is not weakness,
nor are the sounds of acoustic
guitar strings, your smile is
painted with brushes of
sweetness, my heart awakens
to the bird who sings -
each word that you chirp glows in
the morning sun, then washes
away into those yellow lights,
many would anxiously search for those
sweet hymns when the day is done -
but i know each beautiful note sung will
channel the beauty of spring when
it is bright.

- t.m