Bare Bones

To speak in silence is of the mind,
A tale untold, we all do find.
A word that's spoken is but thin air,
It's potency naught but bare.
The truth may be, it may be naught,
For all things within the net of truth are caught.
Though truth untold by man is not a myth,
Wisdom lies within it's girth.
Although festering lies do our hearts wreathe,
A willing heart is not buried beneath
The rocky fastness of the mountain;
Is sustained by an underground fountain.
The silver lining hides away
Behind the clouds, the banished day.
Yet it sustains we here bellow,
And when words do themselves show
A barren empty mind and heart
The truth is where I'll turn instead,
Lest I should in mistrust make dread
The king of kings, the greatest art.
So speak not out loud lest first inside
You cast out arrogance and foolish pride,
Give heed of what your thoughts are made,
To what cause such thoughts give aid.
Listen to my silent words,
My eyes that speak as heralds
On a cold clear night of frost;
Such may be the speakers cost
If he expects his words be heeded,
And if he wishes his ideas to be not lost,
He will his thoughts, ideas, have kneaded
With the roller of wisdom and truth.
No other way shall silence, in sooth,
Become any meaningful thing at all;
But it shall remain a silent thing,
A word that's bare, a mere load man must haul
That lends only misery and hate
As man's companion, his mate,
Ill fortune shall such a friend bring
Though at first it appears as glamorous luck,
Soon he shall find himself a sitting duck.
A word that's spoken is but thin air,
If it doth not withstand truths piercing stare.

Bare Bones (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012