I listen to them over years
that lie about in folders clear
what they are
the silence they are about.
the equally silent light
is heard making a stare at them hard
but without statement.
nothing said is upheld.
but the light cannot help
but be clear.
unsaid has the truth
of the unsaid burning it
s light inside. an open out to even more damning
the shredding agony of this balance
pours its flowless blood into the still
surrounding my ears.
it is not air. to say it is not clean.