Some stories remain shattered on the wind
Blown about by memory of a kind,
Like ash rising from fire on the beach
Embers burning hot and out of reach.
I say there are tales that should not be told
Keep them hidden, cawing in the ravens scold
Stay silent, stay silent sings from willows limb
Don’t tell, don’t tell; change the shout into a hymn.
Deep troubles are best left flying in the air
Heart sorrows are better buried than declared,
Hold the longings and desires close within the night
Don’t speak another soul into the fight.
If we only whisper secrets toward the day
Will the truth remind us what to say?
Can hurt be held beneath our breath?
When the story dies, what is left, what is left?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment