Why, tormented by words am I.
Pressured to express the inner streams of self.
Master am I, gifted in my delivery,
yet silence puts my speech to shame.
Forever in his lines dwelling,
the great poet, imprisoned by his attempt
to put into words the infinity of now.
Yet so beautifully can words move,
gently tiptoe on the linings of my heart,
dive into the depths
of my most intimate experiences.
Torn between the desire to speak
and to find silence -
I close my eyes and drift away.
The white silhouettes arise again.
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