She dreams a song of red-booted steps dancing on stones made of ink. Flesh is exposed, (made) believed real, but never touched—can’t feel what has never been… “But I am”, says the ghost(ly) writer… his mussitation is swallowed by the dark. She looks over her shoulder, searching for a mouth, a heart, some bloody bones… wakening to nothing.

in the night,
a hint of leather
and red, lies

the wee notes…
Mussitation: silent movement of the lips in simulation of the movements made in audible speech; muttering; mumbling; murmuring.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Writing Unseen.

Unsaid Words Will Die Screaming

Quiet not
the raging mouth that sings
differently tuned

songs, which swim
with conviction, with outrage…
with words you’ve never held
between tongue and teeth.

Living words (and people)
will not be muzzled
without cruelty (or war)

unsaid words
fight to become.
Let them…
(we must)
be something,

do something,
say something…
or lose

the wee notes…
– On these days of turmoil and unease, we must remember that everyone has the right to state their peace, even if we don’t quite care for the thoughts oozing out of their pie-holes. Stillborn words will rot… and once the festering takes hold, everyone must suck in the stench.
– After I finished expanding the poem bit, I realized that I reversed two words from the original blackout. I wrote “unsaid words” instead of “words unsaid”. I left it like that. I like how it flows.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform).
– Hm… it seems I’ve contracted severe ellipses again… *sigh*.