My words are either a drought or a deluge
There is no mist of in-betweens
They either dance, or trip, over the tip of my tongue
They either bow with reverence, or spill across the floor in shame
They covet your ears, deaf as they may be, to speak of love and its kin
But there is a mid-day melody that pilfers them from my mouth
An outburst of reckless reasons designed to breach the densest of shields
Where the clamor and the crashing can be heard from miles away
But still I wonder, when I drown in these whispers pressed to your ears
Have you even once heard my silent serenade?
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
My words are either a drought or a deluge
There is no mist of in-betweens
They either dance, or trip, over the tip of my tongue
They either bow with reverence, or spill across the floor in shame
They covet your ears, deaf as they may be, to speak of love and its kin
But there is a mid-day melody that pilfers them from my mouth
An outburst of reckless reasons designed to breach the densest of shields
Where the clamor and the crashing can be heard from miles away
But still I wonder, when I drown in these whispers pressed to your ears
Have you even once heard my silent serenade?
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