The Lament

If speech were allowed a day of freedom, she would smoke up the sleeve of a writer. Taunting the wisdom in the ink-smudged cloth of his cuffs.

We have placed speech under captivity chaining her down to something we call conversation.

She has never seen the light of day nor whiffed upon the greatness of her own existance. The very scarce liberties that she had, have long been lost in the dirt of the ages and will never rise up again. Each free thought that loved her, was snatched away from her, to fall right into the arms of a quill somewhere.

She then tried to find solace in the warmth of MUSIC. There, she discovered a new verve...

But her purpose will never be met. For, this desire to live as freely as ink, to flow on the smooth loins of paper, to touch the burning arms of a writer, shifts further away as we form mazes and mazes of sensibilities and mannerisms around her.

So in despair she waits as her lovers are hastened away. Enticed by the ever so sensous ink.

This i write for you my dear friend. My Speech. I heartfully lament your predicament. But alas there is nothing that will bring you closer to your futile ambitions. Have no hopes from me. For even as I lament, my ink flows and my nib directs your beloved thoughts onto paper. I was party to this treachery. Forgive me, sweet heart. All i have to offer are these thoughts, soaked in ink, carved on paper.