When it is written

Unspoken words have no life beneath the blink-of-an-eye

They wither and pass like the fog on the hills, like the mist

On the Meadows; but if you silently stay, if you cling to the moment

You will hear what`s been spoken in that split of a second.

It`s neverending, truly a giant library of Babel where all are just copies

With the tiniest of mistakes, there are the true “love you’s” to the wrong person

There are the “goodbyes” that were not meant to break. The maelstrom of

Unspoken words

The immensely stratified web whose chords are tiny mistranslated transcripts

Just await to be written. You can’t be wrong when you write, this is the convention

That sometimes needs another edition of the book to be pushed on the table.

Thus I lay all my thoughts as they come, as they go, let it fly – says the voice

Let it flow. And one day, just one day, looking back I will see what was right

Not to write, but to know.


from Drycicles


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