Small Voices At Midnight

I’m a wavering reed with no voice of my own.

For what use is a voice amongst the other sounds in the midnight air?

Shall I add to the chorus, or remain silent and static, for my short, watery life?

Or, shall I be chosen by a passerby and play the sweet melody of inspiration?

Through me is a medium, and my muse will play me beautifully.

Or, shall I play her for the fool? Methinks my days are numbered.

Without a sound, but a slight curve of sweet-honeyed lips,

I shall kill my trespassers with kindness.

How warming in this silence, like smiles of a little sister.

What chilling allegories, so deep that they blister.

A streak of red, a streak of violet. What justice sought, but mercy found.

The artist rationalizes the maddening lyrics of the alchemist.

For sanity chokes my muse of wind.

Those stale phrases bringing stale praises,

Covering with red,

Burrowing green,

Begging for violet,

Rends my spleen.

But, my silence shall be seen.

From there I will tempt your fiends.

So bring the knives and rotund faces,

where I paint checker white,

in those dark places.

Since when did you gain such artistic soul?

You mindful rogue, so full of thought.

He spoke of problems and variations,

of bonds that tied a man down.

Yet when it came to poetry,

he spoke not a word.

He stumbled o’er words thick with spite and malice.

Yet as he spoke,

petals of bright rouge and lemon dropped softly from his lips.

What many thoughts come under my hammer,

and over my fire,

the play of time gleans them well.

The war they are for,

eliminates the bore,

and brings stasis to my frequent places.

With hurt comes pleasure,

and in pleasure is growth.

The first is raw,

the second becomes flawed,

and the third protects our castle as moat.

By fourth we become invaded,

as walls become faded,

expose the spire afloat.

Hail to this monument,

may we build upon it,

and bring ourselves closer to home.

—Kathryn Wells