My heart is a dead language
and you…
You pronounce every syllable perfectly
I spoke it clearly once before
but I…
I made that mistake secretly
Lacking as they were in exuberance,
my words could not escape their own
weight.
Those words that broke the silence
defied the my looming lonely fate.
Alas defiance grants no favor,
and I faced Hades as a rebel.
a shadowed soldier played the jailer,
For chains my mind’s own drivel.
Shackled as I was by my own prospects,
unable to escape from bonds so strong.
I thought of silver couplets,
but my heart composed a song.
What value could these lyrics claim?
What hope is there in art?
If the song’s stale dialect is the same
as the one that veils my heart.
A shout into the void they call it,
so why must I compose
just one more verse before my respite?
I’ll write it down then I suppose
in hopes that you will translate.
S'agapo, or so I think it goes,
I said it once in a spate
of the language of my woes.
I spoke it clearly once before
But I…
I made that mistake secretly
My heart is a dead language
And you…
You pronounce every syllable perfectly
TA- 12/8/14