A mute man serves his sentence as one with brilliance on the tip of his tongue
He learns that his light was never meant to be shared
Even if someone cared to know
Any and every act of aid he made was poisoned by wicked words
Doomed for eternity to be birthed from the mouths of others, serpent speech
His voice hung itself on a drunken whim, left no letter to explain
He wonders sometimes what his own vibrations said before the quiet came
The conscious tone that narrates his thoughts and rules his brain
Is but a whisper, a soft song contained and never known
The void of language was filled instead by perception for significant sound
The mute heard every heart and cared for the ignored and the wretched
He never said I love you, he never complained, never thanked what luck he had
As a satellite in space, he drifted and no one could hear him scream
Pity; a common response for the miserable who live below the veil of gray
Who stew in festering pain, though their wounds make life shine the whole terrible spectrum
They feel the richest colors as they soak the everyday-easel
He will be his story’s rainbow, though he will tell no one