I spoke without a breath
It echoed all the ones I laid to rest
I pulled out every knot
And quietly abandoned what I sought
They grow from empty seeds
Their roots take hold of me
Sink beneath my nails
A whisper that impales
I move from silent scenes
Cutting out the rivers at the seams
I purge this aching well
And the water drowns this private hell
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 