A question Fallen from your lips With the answer Pulsing in your blood It isn't how it is said For in its moments Of pure beauty It is never mispronounced Never falesly spoken Expressed in three words Or endless prose Its hidden truth Spelled out in The desire of paper for poetry And the lust of quills for ink It is the scar left behind Every time you cut your heart From your chest It is the waiting and wanting Of whispers And understanding It is the lost language We can all speak In tounges dancing with darkness