January 07, 2026
Do I atone too soon the glow that flares within?
No person knows, nor ever will. Am I but voiceless
brute, predestined still? Unending verbiage
tumbles from me, bears
the dirge of chirping (though too harsh for cares
of some) of crickets by the thousands, shrill, a
horde that fathoms heat, the flaming thrill that
itches dragon’s tongue with hateful airs.
Yet why does pain combust within my blood?
Whose hearing shall I call? Who yet remains?
Your ear, that part of you, now lives in me.
If “you” console me, I console this flood. One
wishes yet to speak — the past detains —
to understand how heart yet trembles free.
Posted in Poetry.