Ink flows from your fingers
free as falling rain
scripted words
your hands were born to say.
Gilded words drip out your mouth
like morning dew from leaves -
silver stories
your tongue was made to tell.
Lines of prose haunt your eyes -
a whisper on the wind,
things you dare not speak -
too much a part of you to know.
Beautiful, endless, flawless language
in everything you are
seeps out of you
as music from a harp.
Unending anguish hides in your words -
invisible in plain sight.
There for everyone to see,
but no one to acknowledge.
Your soul goes into the words
and you are left alone.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
Ink flows from your fingers
free as falling rain
scripted words
your hands were born to say.
Gilded words drip out your mouth
like morning dew from leaves -
silver stories
your tongue was made to tell.
Lines of prose haunt your eyes -
a whisper on the wind,
things you dare not speak -
too much a part of you to know.
Beautiful, endless, flawless language
in everything you are
seeps out of you
as music from a harp.
Unending anguish hides in your words -
invisible in plain sight.
There for everyone to see,
but no one to acknowledge.
Your soul goes into the words
and you are left alone.