Perhaps I’ve found my voice in silence

For the first time rendered utterly mute

There is much I could say


Much I should

And yet I am disinclined to allow the faintest utterance past these lips

As though watching someone else operate the body I wear as armor

This time, maybe, I’ll just sit quietly

Enjoy a voyeurs detached observation of quixotic notions


Silent mushroom clouds behind increasingly cold eyes

Always, I have been acted upon in this way or worse

Never, has it been from the progeny of my lips that blood has been shed- rarely even tears

I thought, for a time, in this way at least that I was innocent

Labored under the notion that my utter transparency of action and intent afforded me safety

Innocence though is as much a comfort for the fearful as permanence

I believe in neither, both are luxuries of naivety

The distinct markings of un-lived lives

I have seen too much to think I can save someone, or change them

Flirted with finality too much myself to think it is even my place to try

I can fight, I have – championed truths I knew to be there


I am tired, and, perhaps too delicate

At the very best of times only the ephemeral fingerprint of an almost lost dream

Now I leave excalibur for someone else to find

It was never meant for these hands

I am no hero, only, I am quiet

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