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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
