Speak Quietly

O chime in with thy sweet words, for they are only sweet if tasted by another tongue, heard by another's drum.

One may let all things of imperfection and all things that speak of the weather to slowly fall away from themselves, but for what it still comes to be owed to us, those things are not ready to fall away. They are yet to be spoken and yet to be dismissed.

Words of thunder and lightning fall to earth as so many dark clouds. Contemptuous of those that shelter from the tumult, they find cracks, flows once caverened by gold or water, and collect meaning within barricaded walls. Walls cannot hold the dark clouds from forming, they will fall another time.

Not for quick thrill or droll misunderstanding, sweetwords have only themselves to thank for existing.