talking (too many years)

the year I lost my voice
was a gale
blowing crazy
like a breath
from hell

a storm
filled with bleak portent
and debris
loosed from the heart
of misadventure

how many nights
of wasted sleep
to the howl
of that wind
for all the world
as though it was

each time I opened
myself up
to say
what I was thinking , , ,

the moment blew

my sound
was lost

torn away
by the wild wind

and that was the year
we buried

it was the time that we
were scoured

by fire
and ill
and flood

malice committed
as minor consequence
of a failure
to care

while the vile
came riding
on risen waters

to speak
is to commit
a false thing

sometimes no word
can say itself

and sometimes it is only
temper and rage
that is worth
the holding on to

that was the year
I gave up
at last
my voice

gave it up
to the wilder wind
that whispers low
when it circles
my house
and rounds the corners
of my home

asking me
of the quality
and comfort
of the bed where I lie

I don’t speak
say a word
it knows

my restless ache . . .

that deep desire

and that my world
has lost its sound

after all the years
of talking

and talking
and . . .

too many


8 thoughts on “talking (too many years)

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