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.
