Rarely are prophetic words exchanged
With you. Though certainly outside
********
My map, a compass, prophet
Can with little thought beget it's soul
And in a flourish we are open
Channels of espousal, thought
But you. My lips, my arms, my soul
My heart may at a glance explode
Or else in meekness look upon
Perfection. It is not a right
No silver tongue is yours to aim
The workings of a key, too gentle
Within your own persona, id
The eggshell rifts are rarely forms
We, as one, may never speak
The obscure tongues of inner peace
And souls. For it is not your land
My words reverberate in silence















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