Somehow, I'm still waiting to hear the words I thought I would've said already;
My words, alone, alone in me with my voice and dreams to stay that voice,
He's quick, quiet, that me, kindly stepping back, stepping away from the center of the gavel -
A sentence passed in my own head with a jury comprised of ghosts from the past,
a judge in me, condemning me
(we're on the same side, you see)
when these wither words warp, meaning nothing,
like an idiot, boiling in a blacksmith's molten vat of tin
(he looked too close and look at him now -
- not even a trace of flesh on his brow).
One left behind for the one I once was
Once wanted to be
Once thought I could...
If I could hear the awkward timbre of my own voice
Unmodulated, filter free, stripped down to the bone of me...
Nothing left to see.
Witness clarity as the voices cease
all but one
I'm begging you, little muse of mine, soul of what is:
Whisper to me - whisper fast you little flea,
Faster, faster be.
A proper ending left hung, tipping from the edge of nothing left to say.