Voice

She wears a mantle of silence
a shadow beneath contempt.
Her carapace is an armor
           in attempt
To deflect the poison darts
                       and bites
            of the enemy.
Her shining self
Reflected in the undersides of dew
                    is her glory
               but a lie
Devised to hide
The gory inner mess:
             Debilitating loneliness.
Her creativity lines her nest . . . 
Silk defining the limitations of bounded dreams
                     tied in the fetters
                     of self-denial and sacrifice.
Her voice is but a squeak,
An agony of expression longing to
Redeem the measure of her space
But acceptance of abuse
clings . . . a sour temple between the jaws.


Biting back her words she chokes
And all her leftover voice
                   echoes painfully in her skull . . .

This is a much older poem than most of my published  .. .. I wrote it at least 20 years, probably more . ..  I always felt that I had no voice . ..  for the reason of various strictures in my growing up years I learned to keep my mouth shut . . . and remain expressionless . . . my inner self came out through the written word, usually poetry but often short stories, too  . ..  my writing was often appreciated by the teachers at school and college . ..  so I kept at it . . . I found this particular poem tucked away at the bottom of a box and thought that maybe I would share it with you . . . so here, I copied it exactly the way I found it.

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