January 2014

I shout into the dark, and you hear maybe a breath—
Or a nonsense chatter, the kind made by a crowd
Muddled and muffled by walls and familiarity.
It is not the words that I care for;
When they die on the journey (cold and hungry), I do not mourn.
But the volume, the creation, the hot foaming madness
Is meant for you, and that, too, is lost
At some midpoint in the wilderness between us.

To reach you, then, should I shout louder?
Or should I find words that are already in your heart
So that when I whisper them, and let them hang in the air,
Each word’s twin softly vibrates in sympathy?
And if that is needed, how to learn those words?
I cannot unlock your heart, or everyone’s.
If I found some way to love you (or all)
That love would not likely be returned (by all).

So for now I shout,
And maybe one day I’ll work up the courage
To tear open my own heart, and in doing so
Learn the songs which are common to us all.