You’d think they’d quench the burn;
Silent rivulets of pain.
Dirty fingers wipe in turn
Each eye, mascara stained.
Breath, staccato beats a motto,
Echoes of the heart inside.
Whispered anthem for tomorrow,
Body braced to ride the tide.
What escapes faith bruised lips?
Sound more eloquent than words.
When the grasp on silence gently slips,
The soul still aches for what’s unheard.
Audiogeist 