i am the wordless; the inarticulate.

the low, guttural moan
of a dispirited, longing heart.
tired of these silent deliberations
these tacit accusations
tired of being alone.

i am the night breeze in early spring
howling softly through your eaves,
sighing dimly on peach-fine hairs
that i make stand on the nape of your neck.

i am unhere, and you like it that way.

i am but a whisper,
a faint trace of a word
left hanging on a child’s ear,
brushed subtly by ghost lips.

i am what happens every so oft in a man’s life;
i am the nights he decides to take up his pen
and let the slow, deliberate words borne in his mind              
be spoken onto paper

and nowhere else.
                                                           


i am the wordless; the inarticulate.

hear me roar
my silent, mournful roar.