Muzzled by pain,
yet the voice inside,
screams out streams,
if only they could be captured
and used to heal the soul.

Pheromones upon the wind,
signal me its time,
but these signals aren't for me,
and that is just a crime.

Silence in the shouting
patience in the pouting
living in the death,
hearts are all bereft.

Hopes roots sink in,
but some wither and die,
one eventually will blossom,
from the souls depths.