the unsaid words die within after all,
wheels of time spinning, their relevance lost,
on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl,
.
I make a heap of them into a ball,
my tarnished repentance on it embossed,
the unsaid words die within after all,
.
I carry their weight, on my back, I haul
my believes against each other accost,
while on pages of past, their names, I scrawl,
.
I rub myself against comforting shawl,
saving me from the sharp bites, of this frost
of unsaid words, dying within after all,
.
their last sting marked on my heart, on its walls,
standing crooked, I am paying the cost,
on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl
.
I shed this pain bit by bit, every small
pang prodding, strengthening me, to exhaust
these unsaid words, let them die after all,
on the pages of past, their names, I have scrawled
.
This is tagged as the poem for 21 November for NaBloPoMo.
I like the Villanelle anmol – how many words do we swallow that we never regurgitate… 🙂
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