The words,
they
hang
Like lead
Weighted in
Between lines
Unspoken,
Unsaid.
A smile, a nod
Tinged in scarlet
Dreams, stuck
behind immobile
tongue and lips -
Inanity, disguised
In smalltalk,
Fear-encased,
Stems a flood, of
Potential happiness -
perhaps.
What wants
To be said
Cannot be,
As it lies behind
A wall -
And so the
Conversation
Tastes too
Much of melancholy
And bitter tears.
Eleanor Clark
28 March, 2015
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