Cry of the Soul

Whispered words as strong as the best thatched cord, quicker than the thinnest spear to strike the soul, sharper than the best forged sword...
But are they whispers?
Will the tide take away the morning dew upon the driftwood's early light?
And what of the sea?
Will she always be there?
Or will she be cast as the finest net to capture the heart and loss within?

The sea shall stay as the tears of my soul will forever remain bottled, yearning for an impossible escape to grant until the anvil is struck.
And only then, against the crash, will the bottle shatter and I will be set free.
And my tears?
Shall they be as a sea?
No.
They shall be a river, pouring unto a sea, deeper than the trenches of time it's self.
But all the same,
They are just a silent cry, screaming your name.
Without sound, without hope...
It's only the cry of the soul.
So don't weep for what you do not hear.
See me not with moistened eyes.
Kiss me not for pity's sake
But turn away when I ask you to and love me not for who I am
For in the end, when I take that last walk into cold waters
Do not weep at all for it was the silent cry of the soul,
and nothing more.

A.J. Downey and Swanfrost
1-23-2001