terrified of the light, we die with a mouthful
of words that took root on our tongues
but never blossomed. would those words
ever come to bloom? do they determine
the route we take – if the words themselves
are malicious, are we meant to lay in wait,
struggling for breath, drowning in lava lakes?
were there words intended to invoke beauty,
do you arrive at the gate of eternity, floating
upon cotton clouds? and if the words
mundane, is your spirit grafted with
new energy to start somewhat anew?
we wake in a beige room, trying to
recount our whereabouts till we hear
the overlapping voices of a siren
and a divine voice beckon to us.
your voice fails you;
you have no words.
----
visual (quick painting for this piece): https://imgur.com/3pPa9qf
thank you star for the prompt!
