The word not spoken
goes not quite unheard.
It lingers in the eye,
in the semi-arch of brow.
A gesture of the hand
speaks pages more than words,
The echo rests in the heart
as driftwood does in sand,
To be rubbed by time
until it rots or shines.
The word not spoken
touches us as music
does the mind.
goes not quite unheard.
It lingers in the eye,
in the semi-arch of brow.
A gesture of the hand
speaks pages more than words,
The echo rests in the heart
as driftwood does in sand,
To be rubbed by time
until it rots or shines.
The word not spoken
touches us as music
does the mind.
