We
utter it not. We merely live it, distant from an intimate
response.
It comes in segments, where change becomes
apparent.
Our journals are speckled with thoughts. “It’s
getting
better” becomes an operative phrase. Lights
appear
within, where beliefs are reviewed. I speak of
sadness,
long to box a mind, throwing a soul into traffic.
I
saw it in her, to tickle a wave; but it lives in me, an iron
flower.
Often a sentence strikes consciousness, where
suspicion
ensues. We tell a thought, “Not today,” where
evidence
appears apparent. We wait it out, ever to wait,
realizing
a psychic wound. To learn to hide, in public
squares,
is quite a task. Have we given others power, while
struggling
to live? There’re empowered through silence; plus,
there’re
empowered through voice. One might say, “Well
speak.”
It’s not easy to articulate; plus, some thoughts are
embarrassing;
plus, to share is uneasy. But share we must,
transforming
thoughts, facing inner trauma. Else, a fortress
stands
alone, reasoning from a well, possibly overdrawn.
