Before We Speak

My words hurt myself. I didn't know, I had it in me But I had to let them go...the arrows and the pain, to fly their irreducible mission...un-realizing, they were aimed at I.

When ever we are hurt, beyond a certain place, we lash out. We are not our self for an instant...and we cannot have it back. In such moments, worlds are crushed and burned...and doors, whose oily hinges squeaked, can never be reopened.

So, on second thought...even God can darken. Words are a terrible thing. In a week, they can frame a heaven. In an instant...they can bring it down! Will I ever speak again? Will I ever, of such pain...be driven? I don't know. I don't know.

Then, the heart can feel a blessing balm...and pass it on, that what remain if anything, be blown upon to re-ignite the flame, oh precious child born...though vacant of all recollection.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Storm cloud, google pic