What is a mind full of stories with
no hand to write them down? A soul flustered
and anguished without a forehead to frown;
A life full of music, with no voice to
sing it out; like seeds meant for harvest,
caught lurking in a drought;
Would we know a cake with no ovens
to bake it? A fiddler who wants to be,
with no muscles to make it?
The sun lights the earth, but between the
two it’s dark; without a target to throw at,
which aim can hit its mark?
Silence is music’s darkness, an ether for
its art; the deep wounds must be inflicted,
before the healing can start;
I float through this dark silence, its wetness
much too dry; don’t write me off for future,
just because at present I cry.