The tongue is the quiver
darts, arrows, spears
hurtling forward, in deadly concert
finding their mark
wounding the countenance, dimming the esteem.
Pierced, grimacing, saying nothing.
Knowing responses elict more of what was tendered
fending for themselves
embracing silence as solace, shield, venue to heal, a salve for the wound.
Go Ahead and share this, you know you want to...:
Published by Shun P. Writes
Author, Genealogist, Writer, Poet, Podcast Host, possessor of 2 cents, Blogger and eternal student of life, who harbors a firm belief in his Grandmother's mantra that:
"People need to get off of their rump and do something".
All while keeping in mind that a cheering section will often get in the way.
View all posts by Shun P. Writes