We want a voice
We all want a voice
Sometimes our voice is smothered
Sometimes our voice is strangled by our own cries.
Sometimes we do not know what voice we want.
Sometimes we want someone else's voice.
Our voices sometimes detach themselves from us and rise into the
air and hover there, for a bit, maybe float around the ceiling fan
which needs dusting,
before darting out the open window
wrapping itself around the tree
and then flapping its tiny wings
like a bug
toward the streetlamp
where it sizzles, cracks,
and bursts into a puff of dust.
and we are left
in the darkened room
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