two new pieces

Unspoken

When no words can be spoken, what is there to be said?
That moment, so defiant and defining, cannot be contained within the essence of speech.
Yet in the reigning silence lies the violent weight of all that is left unspoken.
Thoughts tangle in a whirlwind of contemplation, entwined and twisted with no beginning or end.
Obscured by drifting shadows, they dance in and out of sight, swaying first to the rhythm of a whispering waltz then thrusting to the tune of a tantalizing tango.
Yet the melody is unsung and therefore it is unheard.
But how does one sing to such a melody, if it is indeed a melody and not in actuality an atrocity comprised of minorities and tones times three and harsh harmonics?
Perhaps it is better to embrace the silence despite its lack of stillness, to bury the notes and cover the composition, to leave the arrangement to its fate.
Words whispered and songs sung cannot alter the course of the tides.
Because there is no going back.
The bridge set alight by the flames of desire burns bright and once crossed is reduced to ash—a backward glance to the abandoned shore has no use for there will be no return.
But in looking forward there are questions and queries, a petitioning demand.
Yet when no words can be spoken, what is there to be said?


This

Negativity—it is always the first response.
Gut instinct grabs hold and immediately looks for that which is looming and lurking and waiting to strike.
The fear of judgment, the terror of rejection, dreading disapproval.
Are these words the right ones?
Is the fifth just a little too flat?
Will they look on with pride or will their features be etched with disdain?
She may run too far, locked in a chase that leaves her lost and alone.
The bullet may stray, ripping through him, stealing both breath and blood and leaving only flag-covered flesh.
And life begets life.
Yes, an ever present pessimistic outlook—in everything but this.
For although the plague of doubt remains—quite simply, the habits of a lifetime are slow to change—curiosity, wonder, and eagerness create a compelling cure.
A lifetime of waiting—for nothing but this?
But this is everything.
And while confusion may reign and speech may fail and dire deliberations transpire—they last but a moment.
For truly, regret has no place in this.
Fear has no place in this.
What will be will be.
The will of another will not be defeated by those that judge.
In this there is love, in this there is union, in this there is me.
And in a world forgiven, me is more important than negativity.