She wrote of wanting to tell truth through a life lived yet not lived for so long. Her experience always voiced what people said she should have kept silenced. Knowledge was the lock she broke when her cords chimed. Harmony and hymns are two far from one, yet the color of fear binds them inseparably.
One black, leather thread, tied her heart to her conscious. The thought of loneliness was never worth the guilt of happiness. Hung low, she bowed in her place; for just a wink. With strong hands to her solid voice of thought, sunlight graced her pages. Thankful for the erased unease sin; never owned to her soul, but always identified with such sorrow. Alone in the eyes of heaven’s followers, but passion allows a verse to marry knowledge. Where love is ink to the eyes who read.
Keeping in time to fallow ahead or behind we must slice even the thinnest threads that bind us. Our voices shall never develop nor learn to sing if our hearts are left blind. To see with our eyes the step first of stone’s we walk. Our hands, callused and bruised, our second of coal we breathe. And of course, our chords, compassion, infused the final step for our hearts to finally learn to see.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment