Through the words that are known to me,
I shall voice my clustered thoughts,
To cultivate each one, specially.
I covertly implored, to set forth an exquisite tale,
One that's facile, yet tender;
Exotic yet native; epical yet prosaic.
A painter's muse, a musician music,
A dancers rhythm, a writer's subject,
A lover's heart and a poets truth.
Every soul withholds a powerful voice,
But its against my conscience to unravel buried truths.
Hence the wavering verdict to puncture thus;
Hidden amongst my lines, my words,
Lies a story not many know, nor bother,
And that works with me for manifested cause,
But, I worry, I worry for those who lost,
To accept sins of not themselves,
Rather the barbarian who walks, undaunted,
At the expense of a dignity corrupted,
The immature naivety now tainted,
And that's okay because no one will ever know...
But, I worry, for those who'll be the next meal,
Another childhood to be trapped, locked and crushed,
Another brute to walk away, unaccounted,
Another life drained of potential traits,
And sleep they shall dread,
Nightmares an unwelcome guest,
And I worry if that too will be okay?
Just like every other time,
Like every other day, and night.
I worry for a loving heart,
That will break, so much more than just a heart,
For it may not love as much,
May not ever trust themselves enough,
I worry, perhaps I worry too much,
Hoping to compensate for those who didn't,
I stand with my pain alongside,
To be able to recognize such secrets,
Serving a reminder to beware of cecity,
To embrace, to pronounce, to discover,
Yet, I worry that may never be of truth,
For you must fathom,
I am but a demolished soul.
~Dreamer
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