by Olivia Austin
How sweet, the words we write-
Under tinted sun of gray.
Sons of sons, unborn but ready
To tell us our crimes.
A glancing breath,
The total of self ellipses our tongue
And dies.
Water, undropped.
Every word around is tightening,
Crown worn at our throats.
To be given empty life
Is the truth we cannot accept.
These words will never touch the page-
And unspeaking do our mouths move
In silence.