.

no words could quell
the throbbing turmoil
that lay siege upon the chest.

no action could silence
the persuasive whispers
that show only darkened paths.

but there is this...
a seemingly empty hand -
with nothing to gift,
except the companionship
of another imperfect heart.

and the open hand will remain,
seemingly empty...

until you fill it with yours.

.

What if my tongue
Parched from its boredom
Runs out of ink
Or forgets itself
And the ways of penning graphite scenes
Into the reality of lines to be
?

What if my of
Has come forth only to be
Nothing more than a habitus
Or self reflective mirror
That worships either everything of self
Or of thee
?

What if our cause
Was already free
And found beside a quiet setting
Where the Idaho deer
Meet, paw, and breed their joys
Dispite of inequities
?

What if this
All the snow in heaven fell
And all the heat of hell rose up
And all the steam between were trees
And you were me
And we were these
?

What if is all I ask of me
?