There's an unwritten poem
Hidden deep inside each of us.
Singing to a song with no lyrics.
It confines in us.
Sinking to the core,
With each scattered thought.
Aging,
In each battered heart.
It reminds us of us.
Harsh, and untitled.
Bottled up,
For the world to see.
A message,
Searching for a blank space to sleep.
A blanketed place to lay sacred
Beneath the pages.
Naked, and at peace.
At least no longer scavenging,
Savagely, for a place to feast.
Or rather, for a form to teach
A poem that has no form of speech.
Yet alone, we each have seen
And heard it speak.
Murmuring
In an unspoken tongue.
We each have at least
Heard it spoken once.
A broken language
vanished, abandoned, stranded,
on empty canvases yet painted.
Awaiting the insight of creation.
Or rather, the creative.
But, whose unfortunate impatience
For the process
Render lines vacant with inanimate objects.
Paraphrases erased from an adamant conscience.
Adopted by moments of silence.
Yet, in that sweet moment of solace,
It seems, it all becomes
All so obvious.
.......