Words are wings

when his heart sings,

but often times

they’re other things,

now hiding here,

then twisting there,

obscuring that

which he most fears,

sometimes solace,

sometimes clubs,

they lie await

in deepest shrubs,

those thickets

buried in the mind,

where peace is all

he’d hoped to find,

illusions, allusions

they sweep across

a virtual stage

of hurt and loss,

flying so freely

out into space,

ensuring masks

are firmly placed,

yet peeking out

from in behind,

the child lurks

inside his mind,

a playful realm

of darkest kind,

pain’s sugar coat

to him does bind,

beneath a shield

of logic cold,

yearning to speak

yet never bold

enough to say

what should be said,

too sad of heart,

and passion dead.

Copyright r.b.franklin 20/08/06

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