Whispered Writing Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Whispers pulled along by gentle breezes, untimely caught in
dire pretenses.

Solidly standing acres apart, tossing and turning under sheets
of flapping doubt.

Underneath a film of gray, sentences want to be read out loud,
voices wish to be heard.

Until understanding of how it's done is known, life will flow
silently onward.

Torn between their inner solitude and reckless abandon other's
encourage, confusion is stirred in momentous pots, never mixed
together.

Question marks adorn the inner mind for no one ever explains
how speech is brought out to be reciprocated.

Voices don't know what to say, they need ancient rhetoric to
be displayed in thought before they can come out.

Placed on paper, encircled in glass walls, writing is seen and
can be touched and read.

Speech, loud and clear, cannot be reached as it silently hides
underneath the kitchen table.

Give me the steps, teach me to think and speak, maybe one day
I will be able to talk profoundly like the rest.