When the words will reach,

Will speak,

What voice will ring?



The voice of the hidden

Who dedicate themselves

To hiding in plain sight

Making their home

In other people,

Their lives

Of other lives.



The voice of the warhead

Who battles for pride

Though

No one is proud

Nor the victor

Victorious,

But held with self-doubt.



The voice of the mute -

Selective of course.

Reminding others that the

Silence they bare

Seeks to scold them.



The voice of the  

Starving child, overfed

With humility. The one

Whose nibbles were not enough

To break the chains round  

His ankles, rather those

Pearly whites of his, once

Replaced by yellow commodities.



The voice of the Concubine

Whose lust has been traded for more lust

Whose dresswear daily resembles

Peace by piece, bit and bit,

Her master, whose love of himself

So great, he seeks himself in her.



The voice of the somnambulist

Who is weary of dance

And game.

Who if awoken

In the middle of his act

Will not know it.