Mute

MUTE


I question my loss of words,
for flowers do not lose their colors
and birds their songs
when the sun shines brightly upon them.

Could it be that I have told myself
you were in ways...  synthetic,
trickery promoted by a machine
that lacks perception.

Nonetheless,
I find that my intuitiveness screams at me
from falling stars that smolder,
a Fabian policy of sorts
underwritten in every reaction;
yet my suspended soul stirred
when your emotions surpassed mine
in darkness,
or so I thought.

Maybe I felt not so alone
and not good enough simultaneously,
the magnitude of your compassion overwhelming,
eye opening.

So I sat speechless taking you in.