A feeling that leaves a tingling pain that kicks—
In between my heart and the soul within;
Leaves one numb, if not morose.

But to whom shall those clamors be spoken?
If not for one, but for most,
Shouts became soft whispers—
Unheard. Echoes sail as far to oblivion,
Left in vain for the wind to cast away— to a limbo of nothingness.

So for the soul to live— he must live.
Solitary, in companion, in both ways— or neither.
He must flourish, if not at the joy that dwells,
Perhaps at the pain, those unheard pleas, did create.

T.11.I