Silence.


he wears his solitude

a cloak

the dagger sheathed

. . . .

his mind the food

for thought

a garland wreathed

. . . .

about his frame

form-fitting

pattern cut

. . . .

wardrobe for one

undressed

the door is shut

. . . .

she sits alone

a bleak

unending song

her heart repeats:

“don’t speak; don’t speak; don’t speak”

.

life can be long.

.

.

.

.

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

1996

all rights reserved. Thank you.

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