surely, though a whisper in a prison,
souls know only truth,
words that aren't words waft on the wind.
and the fickle currents
bow to their will and intent
for the impish breeze does have one master.
the soul speaks;
the heart and mind listen,
and for a moment
all is known in certainty.
a sprite without a name
can only dance a joyful turn.
would that the heart harken purely
to the music
but hearts are healing places,
and wounds in the most delicate places
heal slowly and scars impede
a smooth touch confused by resistance.
the most well intentioned kiss
stings when applied to a bruise;
the most-tender caress
grates across an uneven surface;
words not even known to be careless
grip tightly to a meaning
unknown but to the rhythmic beat
suddenly interrupted.
being foolish, we solicit definition
and ascribe blame
or declare innocence
when neither need be considered.
the inexplicable retaliation
to the warmest smile
garrotes the tongue
and inflames it.
venom forms in the empty well
(a space heretofore unknown)
and spews forth in a surprise attack.
war commences in
the most peaceful of valleys.
and the burn obscures
the idyllic landscape.
the soul pines in
solitude,
ignored
love becomes a word
to bandy about,
its expression
paralyzed by the folly
of awareness.
still,
it is real,
though encased in regret
and twisted by the past.
to set it free,
listen...
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