the fine art of writing is to create patterns from words

for those of whom are unable to speak

aloud such deep thoughts, inane truths that create the wrinkles

in their right brain. It would seem a lofty idea to have

poetry for the mute, but it is much like melodies for the deaf,

the rhythm has no meaning, it is meant only for receiving, each heavy beat

to be be deep-rooted inside some tiny ear, distant, letting the syllables

be raindrops, an orchestra of tongues.

It is not that I have no mouth, nor my throat too dry,

simply my hands do the speaking for me, signing similes

eagerly waiting a reply.