To the naked eye
untrained to see,
restrained from light,
the beauty of the mind
that mines these words I write,
it would seem it is so,
these wings expanding thought
are merely fiverlous poems.

But if you exchange the eye
for the ear,
the object will appear more sincere,
a purer reflection,
clearer perspective
of the silent solitude,
an introspective perfectionist
commands into clammour.

The manipulation of words
into submission,
feline instruments
that stretch out and purr for attention,
the recognition of a million yells, slumpped down into whispers;
the trappings of self,
surfaced above the outer shell, unwrapping the gift of the internal, exposing the breaths taken
before life reaches untimely end.

You do not need to see
to read me,
but touch the braile,
feel the lining,
the thread of skin.
Press the lips of ear to me
and you will hear my true nature,
the symphonies of my heart
an expression of my acoustic soul;
the sound of me beating
to my own drum.