Within a corner resides a shutter
paintchips form a pool of lead.
I know that hidden messages
remain within a pile of shavings....
carvings of diary thoughts...
notations.
Even darkest of corners become a story
to someone.
A book of poetry, in a dying house.
Skeletons have names in places
unseen and unsavory.
They believed me to be a lost cause,
back in the day of judgment-
But I was intelligent, stubborn,
and silent.
If I spoke of poetry,
They would assume
I was lying.
I write of them often
but they've grown ignorant,
as I remain speechless....
And now; knowing the truth
makes them fearful of who
I've become.
