Masks of Silence

The letters he wrote. Words cut the pages. The passions wrought molten the forever malleable spaces cool in their contrast. The letters he wrote. He gave them no stamp The torch that he carried. He could turn the air blue with his protestations. He reached for wall and floor. He would scream, strain, stab his conscience with doubts. Yet reticence, respect and reason left the room dark. No candles were ever lit.