It is in times of great sadness,
That you find me here.
Like strangers we’ve spoken silently,
With words no one could hear…
In those silent moments,
When I’ve not written what’s inside,
There is no ink to suffer bleed,
From the flow of pain’s tide…
©Elizabeth Dianne Allee
September 29, 2017
A whisper, released from captivity,
Feather adrift upon the tongue.
Holding silent echoes, captured by the heart,
Unheard, unless one knows to listen.
Where secrets abide, lying in wait,
Screaming to be spoken in confidence.
Concealment causes a slow decay of the soul,
Constantly under light’s eye of suspicion.
A whisper, into the noisy silence,
Can you hear what’s being spoken?
The freedom found through exposure,
Will return quiet to peace again…