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.
Copyright © Gavin Lockey | Year Posted 2007
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