whisper war

reflection sells itself back

in all the ways never anticipated-

yet what-so-never truth

that marches through crevices and cracks

painting in corners

with the details left untouched

and the noises unheard.

her words.

those words that haunt

and echo like ghosts in hallways past

images taken

and filed

touched up,

edited

to release all the glory

never found in the reality of the original

dancing through these and those

mine and yours

until the lines are blurred,

obscured;

attack truth

and everything else falls away.

where did she expect me to land

when the fog drifted in

and the light in her eyes could

guide me no more?

the things that play into everything

and nothing

and all else, unfaded:

redemption cleans up nicely

when you least expect it and

the wizard won’t see you that day.

the answer

what she’s looking for

is in the words I am not speaking

and drifts silently under

that harvest moon.

She should know.

process this

break it down,

mouth closed,

eyes shut…

let it brush her ears and

drip in,

slowly,

achingly slowly…

the way the pain of

quelling the argument,

the way silence,

stabs and kills all over again.