Without A Voice

WITHOUT A VOICE

His touch whispered against her flesh,
softly, gently, weaving a pattern
of infinite acceptance
of the safety of his arms within
which she felt,
of the sanctity of their home
which they had built together,
and the murmured sighs
of the children they created . . .

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

They had such looks for each other
sending others questing
for the secret so obviously born
in the passion they shared.
And gazing into his eyes,
she felt she was falling
into he liquid pools of green amber,
a falling away from herself
into ways of her choosing.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

For within the quietness of his voice
roared a rage which scorched her,
though rarely shouted,
its timber reverberated  through her body
causing the cells to bang
against each other,
the skin to break forth in bruising.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

Never did his arm raise to strike
but his words bore a power,
far greater than physical force,
for once the wound heals,
the mind forgets, and beatings
feather about the edges
of blurred memory,
but words give birth
to inflictions of the soul,
and lie manifest in bruises
born on the flesh,
as silent legacy
to what her own words
cannot speak.

 

 

 

 

 

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