Silenced Reason(s)

needling Silence stifles struggling Reason
Fury sees its chance to unfurl
Wrath sees its path cleared
Rage becomes reborn.

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is there ever
a day that goes by
that tears do not fall from the burdened eye?

A stony front
stubbornly tries
to seal its bleeding cracks.

no words are spoken without full thought, or so pretense vainly suggests.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

silenced reasons

mute yet struggling

astute yet mumbling

trying yet fumbling

to be heard.

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cherried

Note: I wrote this years ago…I want to change it, but I don’t know what exactly I want to change, so I have left it as it is, and perhaps my muse will relent…

 

she sat clumsily against the grimy brick wall
staring straight ahead to avoid my sharp glance
her hair lay greasy and plastered to her face
dark and congealed like tarrish glue
lazily her hand lay open to catch the piercing needles from above
sighing i sat aside her
defiant to remain as wordless as she
to stay still as icyness wetted my clothes
even as the torrent of freezy drops
snaked down my goose-pimpled neck
she lay her head calmly upon numb shoulder
and slid heavily into sitter’s lap
upon her flustered face
stared two crimson-stained eyes
cheeks a blush
lips parted in scarlet
hued tears had lay upon eyelashes
and run rivulets upon her rosy-pale face
cherried were her hands
all sticky with sweet iron scent
she lay there refusing to utter a word more
almost but never….no never her…almost less a little of life
she lay in my drizzle laden arms
drenched in rain and red…

tarnished

Is it Age which has tarnished this man?

loosened his tongue?
lessened his morals?
degraded his respect?
diminished his kindness?

Has wear and tear and time done its deed?

No….only that irrepressible bitterness of life
and its thorny, barren path.

Do i hate this one now?

No, not hate…after all that has gone by…

struggled and survived.

No, not hate…no, not a lot…just a little.

Ungratefulness is a nettle-laden venom
inflaming all those who are no less weaker than you.

see how selfish one is to remember:

only his errors, his faults

his stumblings-grumblings-bumblings

his wandering and oft lost thoughts…

see how my finger points…how my words sting,

even when inside i am only hurt because
i let the finger point and the words sting…

the un-rebel

no kind words
await the ill-honoured
un-rebel.

no praise, or applause
or laurels are
deserved by he.

a lament, a tirade
a lengthy convoluted complaint
are better suited for
he who plays the role
of the nonchalant saint.

all his passiveness
filled in neatly
into whatever space
pride left
when it was
scooped out
and left to simmer
in indignity.

a doormat is he
yet the stomp-trampling feet
leave tainted and dirty.

an odd duck perhaps?
befuddled about which
pious path to choose?

no,
just callous
and quiet
and with
nothing to lose.

the lady doth protest unheard

even as you speak the truth
each word gentled,
so as not to hurt what already is tender…
each statement wreathed with “That’s the way it is”
each phrase piqued in soft question
“Of do you understand? This is how it must be…”
each emotion huskily swallowed
and gently urging assent…

i let Silence do my talking.