Whispered Words Aloft

Can words convey

The blood made rich

By toil and sorrow's demands

The spirit made alive

By reality's harsh weather

The heart made simple

By sifting apart passion's finery?

Is not breath's echo

But a mirror held high to reflect the all?

Are not life's smiles

But reflections of the one?

Is not a child's laughter

But resonance of joy's past lives?

What if the lyrical

Were to convey violence from within?

Would it protect us from violence without

Allowing perhaps the renaming of reality?

And how would that reality present itself?

Might it be love's enigma

Made understood

Provision to know someone else

After first suffering the knowledge of ourselves?

With pen in hand

Our scribbles plead knowing fresh language

Lightly touched upon the page

Affording dialectic for the seeker

While others cling passionately their memoir of ignorance.

Perchance

Are such words written

As but mirror-shaped symbols

Visible only to the reader whose inner light upon the page

Offers translation to the elusive self?

Such vulnerability

Affords revelations to infinity's flux and rush

Where endless beginnings

Provide timeless ripples connecting the child of our pen

With the warrior of our whispered words.