Step Aside Shakespeare

XVI

I knoweth yond when thee falleth quiet

'tis not for the want of feeling. Thy heart be

like a spinning weathervane, compliant

to life's pitiful mercy. But tell me.

Tell me it hurts when thee flinch with unease

at his name, an acid spiteth on thee.

Tell me through the scabs on thy palm stories

of love, betrayal, and unheeded pleas.

Tell me with the click of a lock how thee

has't been afraid for so longeth 'tis now

comfortable. Tell me tragedies seen

by the way thy tears water hopeless vows.

Prithee, tell me any way thee prefer

for communication is more than words.