When we look at what is already spoken,
the words cannot live
if contained.
Hope becomes all we want
as our souls become awake
in air unstained.
If we stop and count the words
they become elusive
and still hours later
we remain unconscious. As if we are asleep
exhaling each fragment
unresponsive.
Can we wear our heart on the sleeve
of our emotions
to keep our body warm and moving?
When do we realize
where the point of here
is beyond that which is soothing?
If we talk about that which we love
giving our full attention
to each dream as it exists.
Would our laughter
become a shade of secrets
or a storm of words wrapped as a gift?