The inner tongue shapes events.
Far from the clattering crowd of noise
Far from the eyes of sneering predators,
Thriving on the fruit of intellect.
The writer sits and thinks, the fingers dart
Moulding the stateliness of written words,
Subtler than the scenes of flesh-bared sights.
Unearthlier than the graces of instinct,
Preying on the silent, brooding ones.
Years of thought and philosophy
Fill the souls of neglected shadows –
Who pause, reflect, - and with quickened pulse, write –
A rhapsody of hidden words, a juvenile enterprise,
The heart and soul of a forsaken soul’s paradise.