Saturday, March 29, 2008

This is not my Voice

This is not my voice; that I do speak
these words from cracks my lips do seep
with tales each leaf has kept to tell
with songs so hidden within each shell,
with works unwritten each time I try
with words unspoken with every sigh;
That such I write is new and fresh?
Nay these words come from the flesh
that each man wears, each bird and bee;
Yet some-how,
Yet still-now,
Man sees not what mere birds see.

Perhaps these words are but a waste,
Perhaps some day we all shall taste
the sweetness of water, the blackbird's call
the whisper of worlds, I heard them all--

I hear and hear and try to hold
the words! They seek to overflow
from my tongue, till now,
they refuse to still
These words like foam both bubble and spill
Into the ears of friends I know
into the hearts of those I care
Into the ink my hand does hold
Into the the eyes of those who stare;
These words rush forth like bulls to red
Most that come would not be said
Dodge I would, if given the choice
Yet in the end--
This is not my voice.

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