Isn't it coarse how those with brains
like paintings or poetry,
stay the most silent?

Their pen strokes and key strokes
and voices
evoke images that put reality
to shame
and yet they express
just less than is required
to distinguish body from cold stone;
being from statue.
They only have themselves to blame;

Perhaps the world too
as unforgiving as it is.

Though it remains that they
are silent:
Their being may be
boisterous
yet they themselves remain quiet.
Their soul and their bones
who creak with the very moans and beauty of this world
are muted and it...

It makes me terrified
And sad

I want to call out:

"We cannot hear your soul
when you try so hard to repress it!
We cannot become close
if we have nothing to connect with,
except this
hollow,
melancholic shell"

Where have you left your magic?
If you have left it, let us retrieve it.
If you have forgotten, let us remember together.
If it has been stolen,
I will quest with you to find it.
No one should be left silent.