Whispered Words


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
Protect us from violence without,
Allowing perhaps the renaming of reality?

And might that reality present itself,
Perchance as 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 to their memoir of ignorance.

Would that
Such quiet words written
Were but mirror-shaped symbols,
Visible to the reader whose inner light upon the page
Offers translation to one’s elusive self.

Such vulnerability
Affords revelations to infinity's ebb and flow,
Where endless beginnings
Provide timeless ripples from the warrior of our pen
With the child of our whispered words.