A Reporter’s Silent Story

Tiny tracings of rose are revealed,

pink carved from the fundamental canvas…

I wake at night - lips, like a tomb, sealed –

eyes pressed closed, dark within my own abyss.

The weight and the strain burn upon my chest,

my arms reaching upward to take it in…

osmosis scorned by the life on my breast,

scarred by swallowed tears, like wounds taken within.

My mouth is a cold, silent brand of fire,

locking inside all your former breath…

And would you forgive the ancient desire

that allowed true love to consent to death?

I see ‘no’ in your eyes, murder refused…

silence for this child, like a bomb defused.

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