Unspoken

We can’t feel the gentle spin
of the earth as it takes its course through space
...wearing away places on its gloss of time
gradually erasing the markings hours left behind.
Etched upon the face of a day
are writings of a faithful heart whose hand
moves brilliantly so as to take in
the breath of something remembered again...
And so undyingly the hand is quick to write
what never became words
at fault for having thought the earth was young
...and the days ample
and hoping it had only just begun.
But eyes beyond the writer’s own
will never lean far enough over shoulders
which hide unspoken sounds
feared to be said aloud...
And when the hand rests its pen
atop the colorless page
gently stained with aging, useless rhyme
it will unwillingly leave it there
to be fed to starving time.