Colin F. Jones
I find no offence in words, but deeds
Might give reason for concern.
Nothing is done lest it proceeds,
Without flame a fire won’t burn.
Angels gather as tender thoughts,
A kaleidoscope of silent words
That lose their mystery in retorts
That frighten the tranquil birds.
To act upon the words we say,
Is to motivate, or offend,
The passage of the time of day,
On which we all depend.
Thus silence oft is more discreet,
Leaving no broken hearts to mend.
Yet silence is sometimes a way,
To avoid what must be said,
Lest warfare greets with noise the day
Then silence means we’re dead.
Sometimes the living have passed on,
Of themselves they are no more,
All that they used to be is gone,
Lost in some tragic war.
Their hearts are numb they cannot love,
For to love brings too much pain,
And even thoughts of God above,
Fades not the guilt and shame.
Yes silence is what silence is,
Where unspoken words remain.
©Copyright September 18, 2008 by Colin F. Jones