My tongue was not made for silence
but my words cannot reach you now.
I leave them unsaid, lying awake
through dark hours of morning
listening to the rain whisper her words
of love to the leaves and grass
knowing how this will make things
grow right, even the little birds
huddle closer together on the bough
and the stars are still there
behind the storm clouds, never too distant
for their light to be lost.
My words cannot heal you, but I am here
never further than the star, a small bird in the rain.
They stand there rocking in the ocean’s murderous sway,
two shapes of lingering with farewells neither can say. Brendan of Oran's Well
For Magaly's Weekend Prompt, Art With Me, in which I have contemplated the power of words (and when it is best not to say them).
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Even when you pinched my heart small
it continued to glow
with green light
like a tiny fireball ignited
in the palm of your hand.
Does it burn, my dear? Does it trouble you
to know something
exists in this weak world
as durable as my little heart?
My advice is this: Place it on your tongue
allow the momentary taste
before you swallow
and enflame your soul.
This is a rare free element, this bringer
of light: let it live beside yours
and shine on
you need it more than I:
this, my firefly heart.
All you ever wanted to know about Phosphorus, "bringer of light".
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