they do not speak mouths sutured shut their words, thoughts, appear on their skin like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels that maimed them
they do not speak though their screams appear as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants, their whispers as smooth vowels on their exposed hides
they do not speak but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes and the sound stars made upon colossal collapse
they do not speak but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code “lesser beasts” read with feral snouts and see on the breached breaths the silenced try to conceal
they do not speak though they see the mocking mouths of their captors and their words that fly through the air slicing through these mutes, as if they were never there
inspired by the lobotomized, either by knife or by potent potion, and the lunatics yet roaming among us, smelling of truth but not saying a word