Voices were substance
Quivering in the ears like
Words were fruitless
Rotting on the teeth like
Ashes were drawn
Mourning to the mind like
Splinters were pulled
Persisting in the skin like
What within causes another’s voice to shake?
What words are sauteed with stench that feeds speechlessness?
What is better dreamed and mourned, than bled and burned?
Would earth ever alight by the framing of shadow and not bone?
What of those who’ve tipped their cups, slipping, unsure where to fall, or whether there is value in standing?
There is no clarity in quivering; no confidence in eating, running, or freezing.
She tiptoes on the ground, lifted by thoughts trained by hours and cords of suspension. She flutters, spins, then smiles while resting among applause that doesn’t consider the finesse sacrificed in finishing, preferring instead to admire a momentary finesse trained by hours of disbelief in the finesse impregnated within.